


He Is The White Wolf, She, The Moon, And Oh How He Howled For Her

by iamsmall



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Divergence, Dialogue Heavy, Drama, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Flawed characters, Heavy Angst, Jonerys, Multiple Pairings, POV Alternating, Podsa?, Post Season 7, Post-War, Pre-War, Pregnancy, R plus L equals J, Road Trips, Season 7 Fix it, Season 8 fic?, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Smut, Tension, War Fic, kind of funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 147,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamsmall/pseuds/iamsmall
Summary: “They will write stories about them, you know?” Tyrion’s melancholic voice interrupted her thoughts.“The greatest battle in history, led by the Mother of Dragons and the Prince That Was Promised, fought by united knights from across the realm, men and women alike, in the longest day that would end the darkest night.”





	1. The Great Game

**Author's Note:**

> WOW, I am scared shitless to share this. This is un-beta'd so there are probably some mild mistakes, forgive me. This fic changes POV a lot. It will mostly consist of Dany, Jon, Sansa, Tyrion and maybe Gendry later on. It's like the in-betweens of season 7 that I felt we missed and then shoots on to the stars which is basically code for; I have this loosely mapped out and I am really trying to make it happen, send help pls and thx <3 enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Eastwatch.

 

 

PART I

 

 

“What do you think of him?” Tyrion treaded carefully. The fire burning in the council room was abysmal as he took a seat. There was a moment of silence where the eyes of The Spider looked warily from the half-man, the queen and her most trusted advisor.

The room was tension filled.

The little lord hoped that Daenerys’ annoyance would yield. It did not. However, the topic of Jon Snow required addressing. He could not ponder.

“He is stubborn,” she sighed giving up her farce of the “proper” stoic queen.

The tension of the room slowly dissipated. “So are you.”

“He will not bend the knee though it is obviously the wisest decision. You said-”

Tyrion cut her off before she could go off on a futile argument. It was far too late in the evening and he needed to find some way to broach the topic of getting dragon glass for The King in the North. “I said he was an honest man, an old friend. He is strong, obviously resilient-,”

“A great fighter, I hear. They said he is the best swordsman in Westeros.”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed at Varys. _What is he doing?_

“I never said he was smart.” Ignoring Lord Varys praise, Tyrion continued. 

“So how do I reason with a stupid person who can fight?” Daenerys’ body turned from her advisors and walked towards the opening of the cave. It was a lovely day when Tyrion decided to speak to the King however it turned into and unpleasantly windy and chilly night.

Comments on the northern man’s brooding were often made but the Queen did an equal amount.

Tyrion watched her carefully take sound breaths.

 _Give her time,_  the Lord Hand chided himself. She does not understand the lands, the people, especially those of the upmost northern territories.

“He is not stupid, just not the smartest. He is proud and guarded.”

 “You didn’t say he was attractive,” she turned around and said coyly.

The Hand finally let out the breath he did not realize he was holding and smiled. “I figured I let you see that one for yourself.”

“Of course,” she narrowed her eyes, completely ignoring Missandei’s knowing smile.

Lord Varys and Missandei finally took seats at the council table keen on where the conversation was going. Missandei had raised an eyebrow at the him when the northern king had come ashore to which Tyrion replied with a mischievous wink.

“Though he has certainly grown more into his looks, a bit more rugged. He was naught but a young boy with pretty hair when I first met him.” They were certainly both young and Jon wholly innocent. With that scar on his face, the look of distress in his eyes and the sound of authority clear in his voice, that boy was dead.

“And now?”

Tyrion frowned. “He is a man.” _A King._   Jon Snow had been a bright boy with promise that he made good on.

“I can see that,” Daenerys rolled her eyes.

“I am sure you can,” Missandei jested with her eyelashes fluttering and her body shaking with light laughter.

“He’s comely, Missandei?” Tyrion teased the curly haired woman, pushing the wine glass that she had given him when he first entered the room back towards her.

The Queen’s chin raised. “Tyrion, do not instigate her.”

Tyrion nodded his head towards Missandei and made a face before he removed himself from his seat to grab another glass and the pitcher of wine.

“You cannot possibly believe what he is saying, though? Walking dead men...” she shook her head of the playful stubbornness that momentarily resided and turned her back toward them again. 

He put the drink back on the platter by the door and looked to Varys for help. The Lord looked at him solemnly. _No help_. A terse silence filled the room once again and Tyrion looked sadly at his wine glass he dares not touch while having this conversation or the Queen would dismiss his words at drunken talk.

He looked at her form, squinting his eyes at her rigid posture. “I cannot possibly believe that the dead can walk after living beside fire breathing tons of bulk that I thought to be extinct, that some people still do not even believe to be real?” Tyrion did try to approach the Queen with straight words but the sarcasm dripped from his tongue before he could stop himself. So, he chose his next words carefully. “Jon Snow is not a liar, Your Grace. He is a disgustingly honest and judgmental man. Not a liar.”

“He is just like his father, I hear. People think more so than his heir,” Varys had cut in though his underlying praise of the northern man not lost on the hand, entirely to the queen but not to Tyrion. Tyrion had seen that on his adventures north. He certainly looked more like his father than most of his siblings.

“The Usurpers dog,” Daenerys puffed.

Tyrion froze.

Ned Starks death destroyed what little peace remained of the kingdom.

“I would not call Eddard Stark that around him,” Tyrion stated, face was entirely stoic.

The Queen had yet to turn around not even in acknowledgement of his tone change. The Hand’s entire demeanor distorted in attempts to cover his immense disappointment in the Queen. If one northern man heard of how callously she talked about the murdered warden, any hope for an alliance or peace in general would be gone. _She does not understand these lands._

“Of course not,” she retorted quietly. _Perhaps she did understand the significance of her words._

“His death was honestly a tragedy, Your Grace. He argued for your life,” Varys said in attempt to chastise his queen.

“How kind of him.” The Queen’s words dripped with icy disdain. _Maybe not._  

“Ned Stark tried to do what was right, _always_.” The Spider tried again with a worried look tossed at Tyrion.

“And that got him killed.”

“No, my bastard nephew ordered his death after he lied and pleaded guilty for going against the “real” king,” Tyrion muttered angrily, finally snapping.

“Your nephew was not the real king,” Daenerys reminded him not identifying his sarcasm.

“No, of course not,” Tyrion crossly agreed.

“His death was for no reason,” Daenerys uttered finally.

“Well, yes.” _And no._ His death was a long time coming but not _just_.

Tyrion agreed for the sake of the conversation thought he didn’t entirely concur.

For any of the things to happen as they are now, Ned Stark needed to die but he far from deserved it. His daughter did not need to bear witness and treated as well as a slave. His head needn’t be hung on the traitors walk. None of what happened should have happened and the thought of an undeserving man and his undeserving family suffering for the sake of terrible kings made him once again remove himself from his seat and retrieve the pitcher of wine.

The sound of Tyrion’s clanging made the Queen finally turn around with a disappointed look on her face.

“The North will always remember what happens to northern rulers every time they go south, Your Grace,” Lord Varys counseled. “If he bent the knee, the North would be terribly irate.”

“It would keep them safe from whatever they believe may be out there,” she argued with clasped hands.

“The North,” Tyrion started. “It is vast land, with old soul. Some would rather die with pride.” He downed his second glass of the Dornish sour.

“I am assuming Jon Snow is one of them,” she sighed and shook her head. The entire conversation was a waste of time in the present moment. A war at their feet and they were conversing Westerosi history and an obstinate King.

“Ned stark died with a lie on his lips and his freedom taken from him,” Tyrion murmured. “A loyal, honorable man, well known and respected across the kingdom. The North has been through a lot these past few years. I do not think he wants to be the leader, whom they chose, to tell them that are again under a southern lady. Another one they must surely think to be mad.” He poured another glass.

“Unless he wants to be ruled by a southern leader,” Lord Varys said pointedly at Tyrion with a frown.

“I do not think he likes me very much,” the Queen let out a humorless laugh.

“Well the first thing you asked from him was to give up the crown his house bled for,” Tyrion turned around and looked to her with tired eyes.

“What did he expect? What else would I want from him?” Varys looked to Tyrion again, the same questions on his lips. He knew Tyrion left the “to bend the knee” part of the message clear out of the parchment.

“A different sort of ruler,” Tyrion supplied not wanting to bring up the dragon glass yet. She was not going to listen with the events of earlier still fresh on her mind. The last thing needed was for her to hold the material over the King’s head as a way for her to bribe him into bending the knee. She needed to extend an olive branch.

“An alliance of sorts,” Varys offered snapping Tyrion out of his thoughts.

He glared at the Spider. Words on the brink of war were almost useless.

“Make him want you as a queen,” Varys then added, reminding her of his own words moments earlier.

“And how do I do that?”

“Show him who you are. Talk to him.” Missandei, who had been awfully quiet, supplied. She understood Daenerys best.

Tyrion nodded, “You are not hard to like when you aren’t glaring. You have morals he will respect, values you share, similar histories-“

“Excuse me?” Daenerys inquired.

“I am sure you will find out,” Tyrion shut her down not wanting to betray his old friends entire personal background or a chance for her to persuade him into coming into their coalition by herself.

“There are many stories being told about him, Your Grace. He has quite the reputation and backstory,” Varys agreed.

“You can find out from him,” Tyrion said, itching to get out of this room. The pitcher of wine he drunk was starting to make him fidgety.

“He won’t tell me,” Daenerys lamented.

“Because he does not trust you. Make him trust you, work with him.” Tyrion put down his goblet. He walked towards her, “I told you, I never believed in anything in my entire life, and I believe in you and if I can, Jon Snow can as well. Make him see.”

 The Queen held his gaze and while it was filled with respect, she still frowned and turned away not believing his words.

 “Well it seems I am to do all the work.” Tyrion covered his soreness at her dismissal. “Excuse me, Your Grace, I bid you a better night than I am having. I am going to drink myself into an early sleep so I can rise and continue my bonding and brooding beside The King in the North over my thwarted attempts at trying to outsmart my sister.”

 

 

***

 

 

It was a disgusting itch of complacency that made Jon leave his chambers. Ser Davos told him to go back to his rooms and rest. Finding the dragon glass was proving to be an uneasy feat. It was even more troubling tearing apart the Dragon Queen’s island looking for a material to make a weapon that will defeat an enemy she barely believed in.

Jon gritted his teeth as he ended up back in the throne room. He was loosely following Davos contemplating questioning him on what he’s been doing in his leisure time. Jon was anxious. The castle was unsettling. He was surrounded by-, they weren’t quite enemies but they weren’t friends. 

He glowered at the throne. If he wasn’t so agitated about being stuck on the island, he would have thought the chair to be remarkable. It was as intimidating as the Queen that had resided in it though. She was an ethereal and frustrating type of beautiful. When he first saw her, his lords had been right, foreign and striking she is. Jon had to swallow his attraction almost immediately to keep himself from staring at her like an idiot. He had not been able to put a face to the name but the moment he stepped into the room, he realized it would have done absolutely no justice. Not what he had been expecting. Especially not in personality. 

For the last day, Jon had been trying to figure out why Lord Tyrion would follow another stony queen. The Lord struggled to explain the complexities of his ruler and left it down to her being an enigma.

 _Sansa would surely love to hear about how questionable the monarch is,_ Jon thought sardonically. He should be informing Sansa of their arrival and letting her know that they would be coming back to Winterfell with supplies. _When?_

 _“Tell her to gather a team of the best forgers we’ve got,”_ Davos told him hurriedly before leaving him to isolation earlier.

“Are you lost?”

Jon’s head snapped up at the sudden tone of amusement. He turned around from the chair and followed the voice. She stood next to one of her Dothraki guards in the middle of the entrance, her hands clasped behind her. Her face held none of the amusement, only an arched eyebrow. The guard held a critical look and a weapon.

Jon kept a careful eye on him. The Dothraki had been helpful in the dragon glass venture, though he presumed them always to be jesting about him and his men, he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t understand not one word of their language. He also didn’t care to as long as it wasn’t hostile.

This one did not seem to be as pleasant.

“Is it obvious?” Jon frowned looking from the Queen, around the room.

“What are you doing?” Her voice held an accusatory tone. Jon gritted his teeth.

“Staying clear of my chambers,” was all he offered in a callous tone.

 “Are they not up to your standards?” she inquired, her brow furrowed

“Yes, they are fine,” Jon hesitated, watching whatever emotion briefly cross across her face. They were more than fine actually.

They had royal chambers, or a tower that was definitely lavished with luxurious frivolities. Jon had never slept on a bed so comfortable. “I just don’t like to be confined. I was exploring and got lost.”

 Jon wanted to leave it there but a silence followed as neither of them moved. She only shifted on her heels. He couldn’t move until she did, he remembered from his childhood. The royal customs left him with his years at the Night’s Watch but her attitude demanded respect even if he wanted to defy it on every end.

Jon sighed, “I knew the throne room was here and I was hoping to catch Ser Davos-, him and Lord Tyrion were briskly walking, walked right by me in a haste.”

It wasn’t quite a lie.

He saw them.

They were walking by him because he was sneaking. He supposed he could have asked what they were doing. He is a king, but that had not dawned on him till right now, in the Queen’s presence as she watched him expectantly.

“Do you need help finding your chambers? Perhaps you can find him later when him and my Lord Hand stop conspiring behind our backs.”

Jon let out a breathy laugh at her brittle tone when addressing Tyrion. Everyone at some point has that tone in regards to the half-man.

“From here, I’ve got it. I’m just not looking forward to going back,” he went to move but the Dothraki guard seem to be happy to remind him of his presence.

The tension that left only moments earlier resurged.

Had The Queen not dismissed him or was he moving to close?

She lifted her hand and waved the guard off.

“The island is too small for you,” she stated attempting to ease the strain that immediately rolled off Jon, whom watched the guard move from beside her to a post outside the door.

“And hot,” Jon clipped.

“I forget you live surrounded by snow.”

The Queen chose to ignore his tone, so, Jon exhaled in annoyance. He hadn’t been out to see the entirety of the island, only the parts Davos had them looking for dragon glass. He did not know how large it was but it was not the north.

“Aye, it’s beautiful and vast,“ he stated with a frown. And he wanted to go back.

He did love the snow but it was going to become a nuisance with this war. The cold that the Night King brought was the worst kind, a kind these lords don’t understand.

“I have never seen snow,” she admitted wistfully. “Only in my dreams.”

Jon watched her purple eyes squint with confusion. Uncertainty ghosted across her features as she unclasped her hands.

“I’ve never seen dragons,” he offered, but truly wanted to tell her that he could take her to the see the snow, fight with them, she will see a shit ton of snow but that was not the trade she wanted hear.

“Well-” she waved her hands vaguely. He smiled at her awkward pleasantries. He wondered when was the last time she had to try to be nice to anyone. She was so terrible at it, it became charming.

He frowned and rubbed his forehead, “I mean to thank you again for letting us mine the dragon glass.”

“You’ve found it? Thank Tyrion, he convinced me that you are most decent,” she gave him a nod, her voice like a song.

He pursed his lips and huffed, “No, not yet but, aye, I shall.” He moved to leave but her voice interrupted his haste to walk past her. _You’re a King, Jon._

“I thought you would be happier, are you always this glum?” she noted with her mouth turned down.

The last time they were this close, she was attempting openness with him so he would return the favor now.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I would be happier if you actually believed me,” he admitted. Though he tried to cover his annoyance and displeasure, twinges of it seeped into his voice.

“I-, I do not think you to be a liar, Jon Snow. You are much to forthright.”

He rolled his eyes at her formality and hesitation.

Shaking his head, “You do, because if you believed me, you would be coming with me to The North instead of-“

“I would go north with you after you have bent the knee and I have won this war,” her voice did not waiver this time. It held stern and every trace of languor and indecision disappeared. Jon didn’t want to argue, he wanted to avoid it but his inability to sit still for short-terms assaulted him. He was stuck. Regret and anxiety bubbled beneath his skin though they now have access to the obsidian. The idea of Sansa and incensed northern lords did not bode well with his conscious. 

“There is no time for that. They’re almost here,” he grounded out, his northern husk attacking each word. “You want to fight in this war and then conquer The North, there will be nothing left for you to conquer besides a land bathed in blood and soaked with death, _if we win._ ” Jon’s voice broke at the end. The image of thousands of wildlings being risen in seconds flashed in his mind. “If not, you’ll still be fightin’ the same war, just without the help of people who know how to fight them and perhaps a depleted army from a previous battle.”

“What will I gain from going north, fighting this war with you without the north in return? How will that look? What profits will I reap?” the silver haired queen bit back. 

Jon thought for a moment.

Tyrion repeatedly stated she was not a tyrant. She cared. From those questions, he could gather none of that with the addition of self-doubt and distrust.

Being a leader in times where loyalty is a fickle concept is arduous. If something where to happen she could retaliate if need be. She wanted the north. The security, not hostility and treachery. If she conquered the north she would never truly have it. The Bolton’s were a perfect illustration of that.

Even if he gave her The North, if there was any tiny inkling that she forced it, she would never have it.

She wanted him to bend the knee willingly. She apologized. She keeps the tone of persuasion when she could just kill him or threaten him, she hasn’t.

Jon was scrutinizing her.

She had not heeded or called her guard, only steeled herself further. He watched her fist clench, ready to retort anything he would say. His eyes traveled down her frigid posture. She was bundled in dark, thick garb that could even be fit for Winterfell, with some fur, but she wore it here in the south.

He bristled slightly, noticing her swallow as he raked his eyes over her.

He sighed and glanced at his feet avoiding her gaze. He understood what she was saying but it didn’t matter, not really.

“A better family name,” he murmured. The North could respect a queen that fought for them, maybe not immediately but perhaps later, when they’ve survived. “Admiration. Respect. Thousands of lives saved from death.”

How could he follow a queen that didn’t want that over a bloody throne?

“The North Remembers,” she whispered. Jon’s head lifted at the words. He tried to find her eyes but they seemed to have found something inexplicably wrong with ring on her hand.

“Aye, The North Remembers,” he agreed with caution.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn,” she finally met his eyes wearily. “Of the House Targaryen. They will never love me, Jon Snow, whether I help freely or not.”

“That’s not true. Are you your father? Are you your brother?” Jon responded.

In any other circumstance, he might’ve agreed. There was no love between the region and her surname, however they hated her because of the family she came from. Not who she is. Whoever she is. She could very well be the deciding factor in whether they live or die.

“No,” she gave a sad smile.

“So, then The North does not know you,” he contested. It was true. He didn’t even know her.

“I am a Targaryen.”

“Is that all? Is that the only way you define yourself?” Jon asked earnestly. “Minus all those other monikers,” He added. The Dothraki worshipped the ground she walked. Tyrion’s eyes followed her like a guard whenever they were in the same vicinity.

“That is a lot coming from you,” she looked at him with dismay.

“I’m a Snow, it’s all the world will see me as, I wear it as armor,” he grounded out the words her hand had said to him a long time ago with a bitter taste in his mouth.

“And now you are King in the North,” she reminded him like he could forget.

He glazed over it.

He was only king because everyone else besides Sansa was dead.

“Tyrion told me that you save people from monsters. It that true? The North will always remember, and they will gladly tell tales of the Targaryen Queen riding her dragons to help save the realm from death, selflessly, without making their king submit. This isn’t just my battle, it will affect you in time. I’m just leading it.”

With that Jon did not hesitate in leaving.

He had no more to say, feared he might have said too much, offered too many unknowable promises. Just because he believed what he said, doesn’t make it true. He did not want to be alone with her. Instead of campaigning for his lands, he reminded her to not only believe in her name but in herself. Her morals, values, beliefs Tyrion said to be honest but knew nothing of her personally. He swore to himself he was not to leave his chambers without a goal at hand.

 

 

***

 

 

Over the course of the next few weeks, Jon found himself unexplainably alone with her. Advising her. Assisting her.

Finding the dragon glass had lifted Jon’s mood considerably. Although they tended to verbally spar at every turn, she no longer seemed to take his words in high offense. Only deep consideration. For which he was grateful. They looked to function on repeat, her telling him to bend the knee and him frowning at her.

His weariness started to fade with every passing day and his curiosity peaked every hour. He’d also be lying to himself if he said that the pull towards her wasn’t escalating.

She seemed to have settled right beneath his skin.

Jon decided to take a chance and leave the confines of his chamber. It was night time and he thought no one to be awake. Then he found her. Standing on a cliff. _Conveniently._

He rolled his eyes and thought to turn back.

 _Of course,_ he would not.

Tomorrow morning, she would ride out to High Garden. The Queen had heeded his warning and did not seek vengeance on Kings Landing but the thought alone made the hairs on his arms stand up. How easy it was for her to decide on answering the calls to war. But how easy it was to persuade her not to.

All he reminded her was that she’d be no different than the monarchs before her and her entire attitude changed. She all but deflated.

Jon watched the impatience flare in her eyes, the regret scatter her posture. She was human though every nerve ending his body told him she couldn’t be from here.

He took cautious steps towards the silver haired queen. When she heard him approaching she turned around and gave him a timid smile.

“Your Grace,” he bowed slightly.

She responded in kind but continued to stare out to the sea, face void of all emotion.

“What brings you out here at this hour?” Jon’s mouth turned down. “Especially with the absence of guards.”

Jon could see from the side of her face that her lips curved into a smile. When she rolled her head back to look at the dark sky, he heard it. The dragon, answering the call of his mother.

“Have you come to make an attempt at my life?”

“You think me that foolhardy?” Jon rubbed at the corner of his eye willing the sleep away.

A sly smile was the one to creep onto her face, he saw now as she turned toward his shifting form.

“Here I thought we were past all of the death threats,” she chided.

“I haven’t made one comment towards your life,” Jon glowered. _“Or captivity.”_ Jon grimaced at the way that word rolled of his tongue. He didn’t mean for it sound so miserable. 

“Only one of treason, it seems,” she hummed in discontent.

Jon sighed, no longer bothering to dignify her statements on submission with response.

He saw a small smirk grow on her face.

_Impertinent woman._

Her violet eyes left all frostiness behind and shined in an emotion he could not quite place as she looked back off into the distance. “I am thinking.”

“Am I interruptin’?” Jon asked, readying himself for retreat. He found himself less uncomfortable in her presence, thus, the disappointment that flooded him at the prospect of leaving, didn’t shock him. It frustrated him.

“On contrary, your presence reminds me of the things I want.”

Jon’s head rose at her admission. _Want._

Relief should have engulfed him in that moment but his throat dried, “Why are you doing this? You don’t have to go tomorrow.”

The feeling of dread had overcome him when she decided she was to ride off to High Garden.

It didn’t make any sense really. Battle was gruesome, why she was going and not just her Dothraki had escaped him until she mentioned that she would not let her people ride into battle without her. This was her war, they were helping her win it, not winning it for her.

“Lady Olenna gave me advice some time ago. Told me this would happen,” she spoke mournfully. “That wise old lady advised me, spoke to me on how she was able to enter her age. I did not listen and now her death is on my hands.”

The Queen's eyes closed and she breathed in before continuing, “I don’t know if you heard what happened to her family. But, her granddaughter and grandson were murdered by Cersei Lannister, blown up with wild fire in The Great Sept,” she let out a humorless laugh. “How ironic. And now with her demise, her house is gone. Because of me. Because she was my ally.”

She turned to Jon, her violet eyes hard and face cynical.

“No, her house is gone because her heirs were killed, not because of you. Cersei needed the land and one less enemy. It was a better strategic move than the one Lord Tyrion played is all.”

“It does not matter. She came into the coalition when I called. She could have not bothered at all and stayed out of my war with Cersei but she did not. She was supposed to have my protection and I failed her. I do not take that lightly,” she sniffed, not with emotion but with dignity. “Jon Snow, my name is all I have ever truly had, but when you play the great game, you sometimes forget who you are supposed to be- who I am beneath that. She reminded me, so the least I could do is avenge her. I mustn’t let Cersei win.”

Jon nodded, understanding. He still thought it was stupid, but he thought that the fighting for that throne was meaningless at this point. People were needed north, not fighting for dominance down south. Later, they could be at war at any other time that was not right now.

“Every time I go into battle, or threaten someone, I am never quite the same person. I lose a little part of me. I am just trying to savor who I am today because I won’t be unchanged tomorrow.”

Jon’s eyes scattered her features. Her arms no longer sat on her behind or clasped to her front, but one arm tucked around her face and another pushing loose tendrils of her white hair from her face.

Jon desperately want to look away and plead ignorance to her words but he identified more than he wanted to. He wished to say something but there wasn’t a thing he could say. He needed to leave but he stayed despite his mind willing him to walk away from the woman.

Together they stood in shy understanding.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon awoke to the sounds of dragons roaring.

He looked outside to see that the sky was still an ugly grey. Clear, decent weather.

_It was the middle of the night, perfect for a coup._

Panicked, he hurried out of his bed and retrieved a cloak not having time to fuss with his armor. He laced up his leather boots and grabbed a loose knife from the tray that held his finished meal from the night. He looked up around his halls only to see his guard posted alertly at the end of the corridor.

The man looked back and shrugged. _Are they under siege? Who would be reckless enough to attempt a siege on Dragonstone?_ It was impenetrable. No one came to find them and he had no sword.

Davos was quick to stumble out of his room next. “What in the gods’ name is going on? I was just coming to call upon thee, Your Grace.”

Jon made a face at Davos and pulled his cloak tighter. He nodded his head towards the end of the corridor. Frowning, Davos commanded the guard to follow them. They made quick quiet steps towards finding some sort of inkling to what was going on.

Their tower was seemingly empty as per usual. Jon’s stomach started to turn. His entire body was on high alert as they entered The Keep. They made past several guards that were stationed as normal but none would answer to why there were thunderous noises coming from outside the castle.

“You could have died!” A loud voice echoed through the halls.

Jon snapped a hasty “thank you” to one of the guards and speedily walked towards the throne room, his chest pounding. Davos following behind him whispered, “Maybe we shouldn’t-,”

Marching silently towards the throne room in response to the harsh words being exchanged, Jon tucked his knife into his boot and gently cleared his throat at the entrance.

Missandei was the first to bow to him despite the exhaustion made prevalent by the state of her robes and chocolate curls. Weariness covered her face. Lord Varys was next to give respect before placidly looking back to the tempered Queen and her Lord Hand.

Both were in their night clothes.

The Queen looked intimidating as ever even with her hair loose of braids, coiled up and wrapped in some sort of mesh blue net.

Tyrion straightened his tunic, gritted his teeth and faked a smile at him. “Jon Snow-”

There’s roarin’ outside,” Davos pointed up and out the cave ledge where he finally noticed Ser Jorah. He nodded in their direction before walking behind The Queen to place a hand on her shoulder, calming her. 

“We thought something happened,” Jon clarified, his eyebrows shooting down, “Did something happen?”

Daenerys never stopped glowering at her Hand. “If under attack, I swear you our protection and assure that you will be alerted at once. The Queen sends her greatest apologies for your current-“

“The Queen can apologize herself,” she bit back, shaking Ser Jorah’s hand off her body.

“No apologies necessary,” Jon said awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. _Stupid. Of course nothing happened._

He should have returned to his chambers when he noticed the guards were at their usual posts and letting him by as it was any other night on the island. He was not prepared for the attention that was called to him. He was in no right to be here. He was usually summoned for his words.

He looked to Davos desperately.

“Is something the matter? Can we help?” Davos questioned, reading Jon’s face entirely wrong.

Finally snapping out of her glare, the Queen looked towards Davos and Jon. It was the first time she’d seen him this underdressed, only in a tunic, sleep trousers, boots and a light cloak.

Under her watchful gaze, Jon walked towards Missandei and the Spider, gliding more towards the dim lights, behind the mapped table.

She followed his form, though, carefully as he retreated, not bothering to look away even as he pushed his stray curls from his face. He didn’t have time to tie it back in his haste. He felt too young, too- it felt too much like his Night’s Watch days.

He shifted and casted his eyes down.

“Not really. I was just informing the Queen that she would do greatly not to get killed and try some armor next time she rides into battle,” Tyrion said sardonically.

 _“Do greatly not to get killed,”_ she mimicked. “Tell that to your brother next time, since he is still alive,” she spat. Jon’s eyes narrowed around the room but everyone’s eyes were on the argument.

“We are at war, what do you expect?” Tyrion snapped back.

Lifting her chin defiantly, she uttered lowly walking towards the fire, “I will be asking you that question next, after the war is over and he’s dead.”

Tyrion paled, his eyes hot with anger.

Jon’s mouth opened a little bit but any words that came to his mind got lost in his throat.

This sort of exchange was nothing he’s seen before. Not between her and anyone let alone any monarch and their advisors.

Too stunned to move, he shot another look at Davos who watched the scene with curious eyes.

“Her Grace has just been informed that Jaime Lannister survives and is notifying his sister of the attack,” Lord Varys finally mentioned.

Jon did not know entirely of what happened at High Garden, only that many Lannister men were killed. He wasn’t enormously happy at the thought of death, to which she recognized when she got back. There were moves that needed to be made in war he had learned to begrudgingly accept a long time ago.

“None of that really matters because, Her Grace, could have been killed,” Tyrion announced.

“Killed by your brother,” she grounded out.

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat.

 _Directly?_ That he didn’t know.

She had been so composed when she returned. Perhaps that was the calm before the storm.

“Or by arrows, or by falling off Drogon!” the half-man countered.

“I am not going to fall off my Dragon,” she dismissed, edging closer to the flames.

“The specifics do not matter anymore.” Missandei, the voice of reason, murmured resignedly.

“They don’t, now?” the Queen questioned to no one in particular. “Very well.”

She was practically stepping into the flames when Jorah grabbed her arm lightly and whispered something in her ear. 

She stepped back.

Jon lowered and eyed Davos who threw a questioning glance back at him. “We have no allies, divided armies and a weapon that can harm my son which will now be known to that pretender queen.”

Jon sucked in a low breath and looked to Missandei who he knew would give him answers, but she looked to Daenerys with sad eyes.

The dragon can be harmed. She can be harmed on the dragon.

 _No one’s invincible,_ he chided himself.

This had nothing to do with him.

That was something he tried telling himself many times before he continued to make it his business.

Jon rubbed his forehead.

“Yeah and the fact that we may have to deal with greater resistance from-“

“Tyrion,” her voice was deathly low. “I just listed some imperative problems for you to sort through. That, was not one of them,” she spoke.

Jon desperately wanted to know what they meant, and by the looks on everyone else’s faces, they did too. “By the time I wake tomorrow, I want a solution and then maybe I will take your concerns into consideration.”

She turned from the fire and strode towards the door. She stopped before gliding out of the room. Sighing, after looking miserably towards Tyrion, she turned towards Jon.

“My apologies Jon Snow, Ser Davos. I did not intend to disrupt your slumber. I shall find a way to make it up to you,” she bowed contritely before sweeping from the room.

Missandei’s head knocked towards the table with a soft sigh. Ser Jorah let out a sad chuckle and roused the advisor. “Sweetheart, go back to your slumber,” Lord Varys stated sublimely. “We will take it from here.”

The girl shook her head and pushed the coils from her face with a sulk. “I am fine, I am okay.”

Ser Jorah didn’t take that response and motioned for one of the remaining unsullied guards to come escort her back to her chambers. She made a face of displeasure and looked towards Tyrion, “She was fine earlier, just a little disheartened.”

With that, Missandei took her leave as well.

“Will you stay with her tonight?” Tyrion called and the girl gracefully popped her head back into the room. 

“No, My Lord. I believe she would rather not have my company,” she gave a gloomy look before exiting entirely.

Even in all the time he’s stayed at Dragonstone, there always seemed to be something he’s missed. Jon wrung his hands together at the pressure the room contained.

“I see it’s been a rough night,” Davos commented.

“A shit night. I got back a short time ago. I was surveying the damage,” Tyrion walked over to the wine tray. “A lot of people are dead.”

 _His people_ , Jon knew he held back from saying. His family’s army. Men he’s probably knows from an early age. Men with families, the little lord probably knew.

“It’s war,” Ser Jorah said as Jon opened his mouth to utter those very words.

“I know- I know, but there was so much fire- so much damage,” Tyrion swallowed the whole goblet filled. “I forget the damage she can do sometimes. It is my mistake really.”

Jon grimaced. He had told them as much earlier.

“Grass grows better after it’s been burned,” Ser Jorah spoke wisely, giving one of the very few bright sides to the situation.

“I can’t believe you spoke to, Her Grace, that way,” Davos observed.

“Somebody has too.” Tyrion twirled the empty wine glass in his hand before pouring another.

“You’re not scared of her.” Jon stated. It was supposed to be a question but it hadn’t come out as one. He couldn’t be scared of her, or, he at least didn’t value his life. After a beat, Jon realized that very well be the cause for his dissent.

“Oh, gods no, her dragons, yes,” Tyrion gave a light chuckle at the seriousness on Jon’s face. “She is more roar than she is bite.”

“She just set most of the Lannister army on fire,” Davos spoke challengingly.

“She didn’t want to do that,” Jon mumbled before looking up to see eyes looking at him. He exhaled and rubbed his eyes.

“You are not wrong,” Tyrion agreed with a funny look on his face. “She did not have much choice, did she?”

Tyrion hankered, putting the goblet down.

“There’s always choice,” Jon reminded the lord. Tyrion picked the goblet back up.

Jon supposed he tried.

“Not any good ones this time.”

“Then why do you both argue like that?” Jon asked, confused.

“Because Jon Snow, the last thing I need is for her to become emotionless. If she is defensive she feels.” It was a dangerous line Tyrion walked on. “Being responsible for thousands of lives is hard. She has the fate of millions in the palm of her hands. A responsive and passionate queen, I’ve gathered, is better than a cold vindictive one.”

“What game are you playing at?” Jon asked, affronted. _What Hand acts like this?_

Tyrion smiled at the King’s unfamiliarity. “Worry not. I have got a plan and it might just do you well. I will tell her in the morning that I am calling a small council meeting tomorrow in the noontime.”

“I’m in the small council now?” Jon snorted.

“Do you want to be?” Tyrion mused. “That’d be grand. She will be delighted to hear you have joined us.”

Jon deadpanned.

“No? Have your way.” The little lord put down the remnants of his wine. “Ser Jorah, Varys,’ Tyrion nodded towards the remaining advisors before making his departure.

“Tyrion?” Jon called. “Do you want me to tell her?” He paused. “That you want to call a meeting-, you look like you’re about to drink yourself half to death. No point in waking up in the morning.”

Tyrion waved his hand towards the exit, “If you want to, by all means,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m just askin’, will it make things easier?” Jon gritted his teeth, knowing what the lord could possibly be thinking.

He just _wanted to know what happened_ , he reasoned in his mind.

Tyrion smiled, looking back before walking out. “Have at it, I think I have warmed her up sufficiently enough for you.” Jon did not bother to hide the distaste on his features. Tyrion clarified, “Don’t think she can really get worse. She is probably somewhere on the cliffs calming the dragons, I bid you luck, King Snow.”

Davos eyed him.

Jon just raised his hand to halt his words after shaking his head.

“Jorah,” the Queen’s knight introduced himself to his Hand.

“Davos.”

As the two men familiarized themselves, Jon glided out of the room, only acknowledging Lord Varys pointed look with a nod of his head.

 

 

+

 

 

Daenerys had been glaring at the beach from one of the cliffs for some time before she heard footsteps.

She hoped it was not Tyrion. Arguments were something of a chore as of late, a lot of meaningful talks about the future next to the soothing fire and much quarreling.

Pride consuming her, she refused to look back.

If she was unsafe, despite his irritation at everything, Drogon, who flew a few miles above her, would do something.

“What happened?” _Jon Snow._

Their conversations had become a sort of therapy for her, she had bitterly accepted.

“You have got to be more specific, Jon.” His name rolled off her tongue. She dared not to look back and see the slighted look on his face he always seemed to hold when she never addressed him with his proper title. She did admit it was first out of spite, now it was jest, perhaps even familiarity.

“Earlier?”

“Earlier when?”

“On the battlefield,” he grounded out tightly, gruff with his accent.

Daenerys found herself wanting to escape this conversation entirely. She had it about four times since she rode to High Garden. “I burned most of the Lannister army, and their weapons and then gave the remaining men the option to join me. They shot dozens of arrows at me and my son, then a large one right into his side,” she clipped. “He started to fall, he was in so much pain,” she mumbled.

“On Jaime Lannister’s call? Is that what you meant?” Daenerys turned her head towards The King in the North.

He spoke so quietly.

It was not his place to ask for more information, they both knew. Neither cared enough for she willingly gave it to him. “No, well, perhaps it was him. He is the commander but no,” she frowned looking into his soft eyes.  “I landed Drogon after most of the army was burnt, thinking it was okay to pull the arrow out and Tyrion’s brother ran straight towards me with a spear. Drogon shot a stream of fire at him. I thought he died. Lord Varys found out he did not.”

Jon nodded, comprehending the argument.

She internally deflated at his lack of response. Pursing her lips and slipping back into her cool façade, she turned back out to watch the waves crash.

“He’s right you know.” Not what she wanted to hear.

She huffed. “Of course he is _right_. I never said he was wrong I was just angry,” she rolled her eyes, looking at Jon who seemed to be holding back a smile.

“He looked so relived to find out his brother was safe and I lost it,” she said through clenched teeth. It was childish, she knew that. It was wrong, she knew that. But she still felt it.

“Why?”

Daenerys exhaled. “Jaime Lannister tried to kill me. His queen.”

At any moment, Tyrion could betray her for his family. “His brother-,“ Jon’s voice strained.

“Yes, I know. I do not quite remember what it is like to have siblings.” She imagined the bond to be indescribably strong when healthy. “Never had a decent one to remember. To love. To have truly loved me the way they seemed to care for each other-.”

The words died on her tongue when she released how incredibly open she was being. It was a dangerous game speaking with Jon Snow. He could become an enemy tomorrow and she was alone on cliff, spilling her fears.

She supposed Tyrion was right. Jon’s entire presence induced this practical and safe feeling. Not malicious, mildly pigheaded, but never wicked.

He was dangerous.

“So, you are jealous,” Jon stated with a grim look.

Immediately, Daenerys disagreed. “I am not jealous. Tyrion is my friend, I- I-”

Amusement was prevalent in his eyes.

Maybe she was jealous. He had a family, one that despite his recent efforts to overthrow, he cared for. Once Tyrion had got angry with her, blamed the arrows being shot at her, she thought that he was using that as a cover up for trying to kill his brother.

“He doesn’t want to lose you either.” As if he was reading her mind, he responded earnestly. “I’ve never really seen him angry like that. He never really struck me as someone that gets that angry often.”

“No, he does not. He is a very passive cynic,” she agreed.

“So that must tell you a lot.”

“It tells me a lot of something,” Daenerys grumbled. It was quiet gaze they held and her throat felt constricted. He was staring at her.

She shifted on her heels, waiting for him to speak. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn’t. Her eyes darted around them wondering if maybe she should leave now. Her dragons were quiet, Jon Snow asked his questions, she was sufficiently exhausted.

She closed her eyes to breathe in the air before excusing herself. “Your Grace, if you don’t mind me asking, what is that on your head?”

Her eyes snapped open to see if he was serious. She wanted to make a joke at him but refrained as his eyes were curious.

Instinctually, she raised her hand to her head, feeling the mesh. She had entirely forgot that she was prepared for bed. Missandei had twisted her hair up so that it could fall nicely tomorrow. “It is- it's a hair net,” her voice wavered as if she was unsure, though she knew. _Why would he ask that?_

“Is that a fashion, customary to sleep in, in Essos?” She smiled genuinely at his interest.

“I wear it so it keeps my hair from developing a-, personality of its own overnight.”

Her whole body shook with light laughter. “What?” she asked at his incredulous look.

“Never seen anything like it,” he shrugged, eyeing it funnily.

“None of the women around you wear one?” she asked, suspicion on her face. Women had to wear these to sleep when they put their hair up to keep it from falling.

“I’ve never been around many women, Your Grace, only my sister now, recently. She doesn’t have one of those,” he recalled.

It dawned on her. Tyrion told her he probably had not seen his siblings in years. Most women in their childhood would probably refrain from having their hair done up so he may not have seen them. And he was indeed a man of the Night’s Watch for some time. He had no wife. 

“Well if she has hair as pretty as yours, she hardly needs one,” Daenerys smirked at his scowl.

It was the first thing she noticed when she saw him, distracted her completely from her argument. He is comely.

“Everyone always has something to say about it,” Jon complained. “My hair, I mean.” Jon raked his finger through it, grimacing, thinking about all the times people told him he looked like a girl. 

“If you hate it so much, why do you keep it so?” She wanted to touch it but he would probably look even more offended.

“Grows back too fast, can’t be bothered,” Jon shrugged,

“Same for the beard?” she inquired, biting her lip.

“Aye,” he said breathily, looking away from her. She furrowed her brows. “Tyrion told me that he was calling a small council meeting tomorrow in the noon. You should probably lie in. Get some rest, he’s already thought of something.”

She sighed. This again.

“Has he now?” she asked mockingly.

“That’s what he said,” his voice seemed to whistle.

“And you are in this small council?” She questioned with a small grin. She returned to her queenly posture. She forbade herself to continue on with resentment for the time being. She could resume her antipathy tomorrow.

“Apparently.” His eyebrows tugged together.

“Do you mean to bend the knee, now?” Daenerys gave him a pointed look and swung her body backwards in jest.

She was teasing him.

She let out a symphonic laugh and sauntered back up the cliff. Jon glowered and huffed before taking steady steps behind her.

 

 

***

 

 

“What are you doing in here?”

She had not expected to see him up this late, in the library no less. Testiness coursed through her. He was senseless. She could not justify this.

“Sending a Raven to my sister informing her that I have not been burned alive _yet_ ,” he smiled to her. Perhaps he was trying to ease the tension rolling off her in waves.

“Yet?”

He was failing. “ _Yet_ ,” he confirmed.

“You say it as if I might?” She strolled through the entryway, touching her fingers to some of the dusty books, feigning interest. The books towards the front seemed to be on basic functions. She was looking for children’s tales.

“Well, are you?” He eyed her warily. She scoffed. At least he knows she’s unhappy with him. Though he doesn’t care, he will always do what he feels he needs to do.

“Are you informing your sister about your current excursion beyond the wall?” Her eyes connected with some parchment on hunting. Trapping, skinning, cooking, it as a sport. Killing for sport made her skin crawl, even if it was for food.

She withdrew from her thoughts to notice Jon starting at her. She looked back at him expectantly. “No,” he finally uttered.

“Because you know this is stupid and unsafe,” she retorted. She spent the last half of the day convincing herself she did not care about this Jon Snow, however, the prospect of him leaving her left her with a stale feeling. Even after all this time, she was not able to win him over.

“Aye, but what else will convince you and Cersei Lannister that this is the only thing that matters,” he drawled exasperatedly. Her eyes scattered to another place that was not his own.

“Getting my family’s throne back is very important to me.”

She found a small child’s book on Aegon’s conquest on the shelves. She put it aside for when she would leave.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean that your family’s dynasty was not important, however, it is not the most prevalent thing at the moment.” He never fails to mention.

“You can get killed,” she muttered.

“Aye, but I can get killed either way. I have to go home no matter what.” She tried to swallow down the tepid disappointment. “I can either die fighting alone, or together, or live fighting together.”

Her head whirled around, “You do not think that you can live fighting alone?”

“I do not know. The dragon glass will help but-”

“You are a brave man Jon Snow.”

“Aye.”

“It will get you killed.” Her voice was brittle.

“I think you’re quite bold too, Your Grace,” his body was rigid but his lips held a smile looking back to his parchment, seeing it over before folding it. Pushing his chair back, he walked towards the burning fire, removing a small pot of hot wax and returned to his seat.

“Not stupidly so,” she remarked.

“Lord Tyrion doesn’t believe that, should I restate everything he scolded you for last night?” he chuckled, not bothering to look up at her glare he knows he placed on her face.

“Please, do not.”

Distracting him from this topic in all his time here was not an easy feat. Impossible, it appeared, due to this circumstance. “There is still a large chance that you will be fighting this war no matter what, if I don’t do this, try, you’ll be doing it alone,” he continued, twisting the rolled note in his hand.

“Then you must believe that I’d win against Cersei,” she looked for any hint of discontent on his face at the notion.

She saw the frown. “You have three large dragons.”

“Do you not think me a fit ruler?” She tried to stop herself from getting defensive though it slipped through her teeth.

“I’ve said I think you are far superior than the Lannister Queen. She has no remorse, no deep understanding of death, the value of life- you have a good heart.” It was shy, the way he said those last words.

_He was embarrassed._

He looked down again, tapping his fingers against the table. She supposed talking to him before High Garden was not the mistake, she thought it to be. _Understanding of death, value of life._ She knew the stories of freeing slaves reached this land, but she wondered if the tales of her walking through fire reached Westeros yet, as well. 

“You do not want to do this?” She realized.

Earlier, he found out two of his siblings were still alive. No, he did not want to do this. No person of his emotional capacity would want to do this, not with a family at home. “No, but I must.”

“Do you often do things you don’t want?”

It was a selfish question to ask as she wanted to see what his contemplation looked like after a day like this.

He sucked in a breath, dejection not clearly written on his face, but seeable enough. “Aye, I’m a leader.”

“And when was the last thing you did something you wanted?” Everything about Jon Snow reeked of graceless wisdom, hard truths and gloominess. The end of the world was coming and that was not whatever seemed to make him sad. He seemed to be deeply disheartened by his life, his family’s tragedy, understandable, but people. Daenerys had learned to accept cruelness from people a long time ago, though despite his experience, he remained hopeful.

“It’s been quite some time,” he admitted, still not glancing at her. She long forgot about the reason she came to the library.

“But-”

“I wanted a lot of things I couldn’t have,” he finished, giving her a pointed look. _End the conversation,_ his facial expressions screamed at her.

She ignored as she normally does. “You are a king now.”

“I want things I can’t have.” It was a concession. He allowed her this answer.

“But you are a king, you can have anything,” she still pushed. This was king logic in Westeros for the last few decades.

“Not everything, that is not how it works. I won’t allow myself to desire things I should not have,” he argued, standing up, his word laced with his husk.

Wanting to see him not give half answers, she pushed nonetheless, “Why shouldn’t you have things you want?”

“There’s a great war coming. I don’t think about this.” He had not meant to say that, he removed himself from her stare. Not as he did. “This,” he waved his hands vaguely. She knew what he meant.

“You do not want me?” She glanced towards the fire, desiring warmth.

“Is that a question or a statement?” he asked gently.

“Correct me if I am wrong,” she took careful steps towards the fire. It was calling to her and she wanted to go.

“You’re wrong.”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“You look but you don’t touch, why?” She turned around, incredulously. Any man would have tried it by now. But he was the epitome of restraint, unless it involves the prospect of him dying.

“There is no time for this, neither my place,” his eyes fluttered, comprehension dancing on his features.

 _Neither my place,_ her eyes narrowed.

He slowly nodded, “Excuse me, Your Grace, I shall bid you goodnight.” He picked up his parchment, placing it in to his pocket and made towards the large double doors. She felt entirely cold.

“Jon Snow, wait,” Daenerys called towards him. She willed herself not to smile at the curse he muttered.

“And when was the last time you did something you wanted?” _he_ asked, catching her off guard.

She forgot what personal want were for so long. She desired justice, home. And those things seemed to evade her often. _Meereen?_ She had not really wanted Daario, but he functioned as a nice balm. Perhaps her superficialities, clothes, jewelry, taking extra time of her day to settle early so she could do her hair. _No_ , she had to look the part. She rarely cared.

“I am doing something I want right now,” she settled.

“And that is?”

“Fighting the injustice that has plagued the kingdoms for decades, taking back my families throne.” It is true she wanted that, it is all she has ever wanted. She would see it through.

“Is that something you want or feel you must do?”

“It seems the things I want, I must do.” She walked forward, wondering if he would walk away from her.  

“Aye.” His voice was throaty.

“At least, try.” It was what she was here for. Why people united behind her. And now she was not far behind him. He could feel her there, she was sure.

When Daenerys was younger, she never thought she would be able to go home, let alone have chance at getting her families dynasty back. Those had been her brother’s dreams. She just wanted a home. She had it but she also had power. Experiencing injustice firsthand made her understand there was more to her existence than control. She could make life fair so people wouldn’t have to suffer as she did. She refused to suffer more than necessary. “Once.”

He turned around. The Queen’s posture normally held little insecurity but currently, her head was slightly bowed and she had not met his eyes completely when he turned around. He took a cautious step towards her which placed him directly in front of the silver haired queen, setting her nerves alight. She could feel his breaths on the tips of her face. They had never been so close and now there was a fire burning in her eyes that traveled throughout her body. “Just once,” he murmured against her lips. 

It was as if she inhaled him by the way he suddenly moved his mouth along hers. Her balance had slipped out from underneath her for she had underestimated his strength. She caught onto his doublet and latched on to his form while staggering backwards slightly under his weight. Pulling him with her, she found herself perched against the table he previously occupied. Their lips moved together in unison as Jon settled in the gap between her legs, one hand griping at her thigh and another at the hollows of her throat. Daenerys found herself getting drunk off the taste of his lips. Her movements became clumsy and frenzied as the lust consumed her and blinded all logic.

The Queen ran her hands down his front pulling him closer by the tops of his trousers. His breaths turned into pants as she bit his bottom lip and moved her body against his. He was neither gentle nor rough. A satisfactory in-between for two people who hardly knew of each other and definitely understood this was deplorable.

His touches were firm and confident, filled with a passion she was sure she had never felt before. Frustrated, her hands found their way to the back of his neck where she grabbed onto his loose curls and tugged roughly attempting to merge their bodies closer.

He complied her request. Jon shifted his form further between her legs pulling her face so near together that their teeth clattered against each other. She opened her mouth allowing him to slide his tongue against hers, moaning as she felt him hardening through his breeches. She scarcely remembered ever being kissed like this either. Their tongues danced together in harmony as their hands scaled each other. The groan he let out was the song to her soul for the night and she wanted to hear more.

She rubbed her hips against his and didn’t recall when she started unlacing his doublet but the very top of his chest was now peeking through the opening of his tunic. He was warm. She whimpered. Her head fell to his shoulder and a shaky breath was released as his hand palmed one of her breasts.

The pleasure shot straight towards her lower half. He was teasing her. These were novice touches and by the way he kissed her, he was not. Daenerys yearned for this northern fool more than any man that she had come across. He smelled of sweat, musk and leather and his noises of pleasure sent shockwaves of desire through her body. She could feel her own heat gathering between her thighs like it never had before.

She supposed it was because she knew she shouldn’t be doing this or perhaps because out of everyone, she had Jon Snow, King in the North, honorable and moral, rasping on top of her. It felt good to be wanted by someone who is good.

Daenerys lifted her head higher, wrapping her arms around his neck pulling him down onto the table. He had stiffened when she slipped her hand between their bodies to rub against his length. “Your Grace, we-”

She did not want to hear about what they should or should not be doing, or what was wrong or improper. She finally felt something other than dissatisfaction and anger since landing on the island that marked her birth.

The King in the North removed himself from on top of her and took his warmth with him. She swallowed the hurt in her throat and braced herself for the sheer disappointment that she was likely to reencounter. Sitting up, she watched the internal struggle that Jon was trying hard not to show. He had not moved that far, stood just a couple of steps away from her with his eyes closed attempting to sturdy his labored breaths. It was as if he was mocking her, with himself, withholding his heat and holding his composure. He was so close but she felt this was the furthest away from her he had been since she had stepped into the library.

Daenerys bit her lip willing herself not to ask him why he couldn’t allow himself to do this. She knew the answer. _We hardly like each other,_ she thought. Lie. A disgusting lie.

Daenerys looked up from underneath her eyelashes to see his eyes scanning her. His pupils were dilated and his jaw was clenched. She slid off the table and lifted her chin in obstinacy. He gave a morose smile. The feeling that shot through her body at the gesture halted her steps, scaring her.

They stayed like that for a while. Staring at each other, her pride seeping through and then his apprehension. Jon cursed himself before striding towards her and pulling her against himself hungrily. Their lips smashed together as her body fell back towards the tabletop. She let out a soft yelp as he ground his hips into her, licked and nipped his way down her throat while shoving her cloak off. His hands felt their way down her body to find the laces to her skirt.

Daenerys’ mind had never gone blank in the presence of man. She hardly even knew where to put her hands as his tongue seemed to trace symbols in the hollow between her shoulder and throat. When she let out a moan at his suckle on the tops of her breast that were peeking out, he let out a growl and pulled hard at her corset. He hadn’t finished unlacing but it was undone enough to which she could step out of it. She stood in nothing but her breeches and boots.

Jon took a hallowed breath as his hands traced down her neck to the curve of her breast. She let out a whine as his thumb skirted across her nipple. When he finally looked to her eyes, she could not conceal the wanton glaze she held. Without him touching her other side, she could already feel the tip of her bust tighten.

His throat bobbed a few times. He swallowed whatever he was feeling before bringing his lips to hers once again. His touches were no longer hard and desperate, they were ardent and rousing. She squirmed attempting to rid herself from the throbbing that was persistent between her thighs. His hands slipped down her front as he kissed and licked his way between her breasts.

When his mouth finally came down on one mound, Daenerys’ head went back with a cry as he rolled his tongue against one and caressed the other until he was satisfied. He did this with both sides until he felt her buck her hips forward. Jon smiled against her stomach. _Arrogant._

She grounded her teeth as Jon crouched down to undo the laces on her boots. He tossed them somewhere behind him and pulled at her breeches till they slipped down and off her legs. Daenerys swallowed. She was in nothing besides her small cloths.

Daenerys had never been modest. She never had a chance to be growing up in Essos but she felt entirely under scrutiny when most of his clothes were still on. When he rose back to his feet and stepped towards her, she pulled at the remaining laces on his doublet and let it fall off him. He gathered her in his arm so that she could feel how much he wanted her. Daenerys shuddered before she gathered the bottoms of his shirt and started to feel up his waist.

She faltered a bit when she felt something jagged and uneven on his otherwise muscled and smooth stomach. Jon completely enthralled with her touches had not realized how far up her hands started to travel until she gasped, her small hands halting at his torso. His body went rigid and his hands snapped towards her and gently took them off of his center.

Daenerys wanted to search his face but his head was at her neck. She wanted his shirt off, she wanted to know what she was touching but this was something he was not comfortable with. His body was still tense.

 _He’s fought many battles, they are probably scars,_ she thought. They were not anything to be insecure about. He didn’t seem like a man who took pride in his looks so why would he be so unyielding about this?

Jon had not said anything for a while and neither one of them seemed to want to stop because they did not move from each other. And Daenerys was no coward so she rolled her body against his slightly and slipped her palms from his, to the back of his head. She did not care about his scars, even if they were ugly. She didn’t want him any less for the lives he may have taken. She knew what it meant to be who they were.

She guided his face towards her and placed her mouth on top his and traced her tongue along his bottom lip until he was responding to her again. She outlined his jawline as she untied his breeches. He kicked off his boots and yanked off the only thing left blocking her entrance.

They seemed to have gone from rough yet apprehensive to hungry but tender. Jon groaned feeling at the wetness between her legs. Her body was on fire.

She wanted to see him entirely naked. She wanted to know what was beneath his tunic, she wanted to feel along his entire body and mark her way down his as he did with hers. He seemed to only trust her not to kill him.

She let out a huff which Jon seemed to take as frustration and thrusted into her. She let out a yelp of surprise as pleasure consumed her. Widening at the feeling of fullness, she had missed this.

As she adjusted to his size, he kissed her. And when she was ready for him to move, she squirmed which he rewarded with a groan. She was filled and content as he moved inside of her. She moaned with every thrust he made, strong and seemed to get deeper with every jerk of his hips.

She could feel the tension rolling off him. The man was a walking conundrum _._ He leaned her down to the table as his mouth took up residence on her breasts. Moving her thighs to wrap around his back, Jon drove into her. And the fire that had been burning in the library started to sing to her as all other noises drowned out, her head feel back and she saw white.

She must have let out a noise because he pushed into her again, and again, and again until her entire body began to shake. She tried hard not to give him the satisfaction of a scream and failed when he plunged inside of her for the-, she couldn’t even remember. Jon bit back a groan as she clenched around him. He had stilled and waited for her to recover to see if he could keep going.

She pushed him off her with intention to drag him to the floor. Her jaw was clenched and her violet eyes seemed to have flames behind them. She stepped towards him, vibrating. He stepped back instinctively but she was swift in her movement. She crushed his lips to hers, pulling his head down to her height. Daenerys was small but in this moment Jon was entirely inferior. She stroked him as she pushed him down onto the stone floor right in front of the blazing fireplace. She broke their kiss as lowered herself onto him, relishing as his head fell backwards.

She moved his hands to her breasts and rolled her hips. She grounded herself against him in expertise but when she looked into his eyes and saw him watching her in awe, she felt herself begin to tense again. Jon sat up, his hands tightening as he pushed into her until she trembled over the edge. His body jerked into hers twice more. He came with a grunt and her name on his lips.

A comfortable silence surrounded them for a few moments. She expected that when he finished, he would walk away but instead he just fell onto his back pulling her down with him. He looked at her and then back up the ceiling and let out a short laugh.

Daenerys bit her lip in contemplation. _What do we do now?_ “Stop that.” His voice was gruff and husky, laced with his northern accent. She thought that she had whispered her question out loud but he moved his thumb to her lip, removing it from in between her teeth. _I was biting my lip. He does not like when I bite my lip_ , she realized. She looked up at him and into is dark eyes and caught his finger between her teeth. She ran her tongue against him eliciting a moan. He shook his head letting out a short and tired breath.

Daenerys released his thumb and he tugged her closer to him. He lowered his head back and closed his eyes. She could leave but he felt good and her limbs felt heavy. She supposed she could peak under his shirt now. Maybe he did trust her. Not entirely but enough to have faith that she would not do anything callous while he rested.

The Queen watched the rise and fall of his chest. _He really is decent._ And he would be leaving at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the characters are a little wild right now but, hopefully everything will be put into some angsty perspective :D
> 
> SO this started as a mild fix-it fic for my friend that said "I wanted them to fuck before Eastwatch" and kind of grew into this planned five part fic. It has some book elements but I am not an avid book reader so, forgive me again. So, yeah. I finished the first part and decided to share it to see if anyone would actually like it and spare some writing tips!
> 
> If the POV change is unclear, drop some comments down below on how I can make it easier for y'all to read. I am afraid this has been in my head for the last 3+ months and I cannot tell you up from down. This is my first fic so kindness and comments are greatly appreciated, so is constructive criticism and ideas but like, after chapter four lmfaooooo I can't change part one anymore or I will puke.
> 
> Pleaseeeeee let me know if you are reading even if it is just a "Hey, I'm reading" "hi" or a "nice" !!!  
> Lots of love, Angel xxx


	2. The Compromising Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Eastwatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you get triggered by panic or anxiety attacks, be careful reading this. Sorry for the username change but I wanted to make sure y'all can find my tumblr which is i-am-small.tumblr.com. Still un-beta'ed! Bear with me, with this chapter! And Enjoy <3

Daenerys went into his room early mornings as soon as she rose and every evening after he was made ready for rest. She did not risk being around him while he was awake again. She was not entirely sure how far she could personally trust Ser Davos with discreetness either, however, if Jon knew from Davos that she was coming in to check upon him, he had not acted like he wanted to see her or attempt formalities.

She was very careful with her steps for there were only sounds of the gentle rocking of the boat, light crashes of the waves, and the quiet hum of fire.

They had one more night at sea. Daenerys had decided she would go in a little later because she wanted to gather her thoughts.

She had refused to mount Drogon to return to Dragonstone in fear of his temper or worse, his pain. She felt his anguish and terror as Viserion crashed into the ice. His and Rhaegal’s cries were not only theirs but her own as well. She now knew that the dragons could feel her pain as she could theirs. Perhaps more hers, than her, theirs. 

As soon as Daenerys had dismounted her son, she thought that he would ride off like Rhaegal but he turned to her. She helped the rest of the group off the dragon, grimacing as they stepped on his tender parts.

She waited, looking to him for what felt like hours. His eyes were fused with pain, care, and moderate mistrust that broke her heart. The creature worried more for her than himself and she could do nothing but chant apologies.

The dragons whined.

She had never heard them make those sounds. She knew their screeches of pain well from when Drogon was hit with arrows and first speared, she heard it now coming from the sky as Rhaegal had took to lapping around the perimeter, almost waiting, in denial, for his brother to return. And she would forever be haunted by Viserion’s screech as the ice spear pierced him.

Refusing to let tears fall, she leaned into him, continuing her chant in her mother tongue until Ser Jorah called her back behind the wall to prepare to sail out.

She remembered Davos saying that they could leave and he would wait. His place was beside the King of the North and no matter how much he believed in her, he would wait longer for he had come back from things worse than this.

“What’s a little ice water to that Snow bastard any who?” A man named Tormund Giantsbane agreed shakily. She had turned to Jorah and said they were not to leave until she was ready. She just wanted to wait a little longer. She felt she needed to wait.

This could not be the end.

She had not ridden all that way just to watch him die, to watch her child die too. She refused to believe this was it. And she would face the Night King alone, without the man who promised to protect the realm.

She could not.

He could not be right.

She admitted to herself that she had been entirely in denial when she saw Viserion fall and on the fly back on Drogon.

She also admitted to herself that she had stayed and hoped, somehow, someway, for the Northern King to appear on the back of her fallen child. _Drogon did let him touch._ His mother, _maybe she had Valyrian blood in her._

The last thing admitted to herself was that the idea of, King Jon Snow from Winterfell, dying had spread devastation through her. So, when she turned away and followed Ser Jorah’s guidance from the watch tower, she had bowed her head in absolute horror and dread.

Then the horn rung.

There was a horse. A man, on the horse. She had never been so hopeful.

Daenerys knew that pain was sure to follow from now on. Pain had always come from her hope.

“Khaleesi, quickly.” They bounded down from the wall and found Ser Davos and a boy named Gendry carrying a body on to a small boat that had been docked waiting for them.

Jorah had pulled her onto another boat after saying a farewell to those left at the wall and rowed her out to the ship. She had never hurried so fast to get on a ship in her life, not even to get to Dragonstone.

When she finally made it up, she followed the hoard of people into a cabin. She never did see with her own eyes that it was him with all the frozen fur until they pulled it off. She remembered the shock that must have shown on her face when she realized that Ser Davos was indeed, not being dramatic. What she had felt that night-, she blinked in horror.

 _How?_ She stayed and listened to Davos mutter for Jon to keep groaning. “ _Talk._ _Stay up._ _Pain is good_ ,” he said. She heard shaky breaths but she did not leave until she was sure that Jon was well.

In those hours, extreme emotions course through her. Stronger than she has ever felt. Worry that consumed her. Panic plagued her. Stress so heavy that it weighed her shoulders down. She could hardly breathe.

When Daenerys departed to change, Jorah had found her. “You didn’t take Drogon back?”

“No.” Daenerys knew he was asking her why but she also knew that he had an inkling why. She nodded her head at him in respect, hiding her alarm, and walked to her room.

She had bathed herself allowing no one to come into her chambers as she tried to gather her wits about her. She remembered the food plates that were left for her all the nights on that ship. Stewed rabbit. Stewed fish. Grains. Some meat with onion. And dried fruit, which she only ate early daytime when she started to feel ill.

It was the last night on the vessel and she was normally in his room a while ago but she had to think about what Tyrion was going to say to her or what she to him.

He had cautioned her, no, begged her and Daenerys had not listened. She did not regret going. She saved people, she saw, but she lost part of their security. _Her child._

Her throat dried.

Shaking away her emotions, she knew that he would be disappointed but she also understood he cared. The look on his face may do her in.

If Tyrion said something, she would perhaps weep, if he said nothing, Daenerys most definitely would. She could not even mention the loss of her child in the raven she had Jorah send.

Embarrassment had flooded her and grief consumed her. Writing it made it even more true.

Tyrion would notice immediately, anyway. The dragons cut the trip down considerably and they would have been there already.

 _If he hadn’t counted-,_ _who was she taking for a fool here?_ she thought to herself. She knew, he knew.

Questioning the little lord and his loyalties in their arguments were always done out of self-doubt and in the heat of the moment. He wanted her to bring change. He loved her dragons, she understood that when he cared for them as no one else could. Tyrion, himself had unchained Viserion, her mild-mannered son, when she could not.

Daenerys choked her sob down as she opened Jon’s cabin door, entirely too distracted thinking about her Lord Hand to see the more lit than normal bed chambers.

“Your Grace,” Jon bowed his head slightly from the chair he was sitting at, wincing somewhat.

“Oh.” She stopped in her tracks surprised to see him up. “I didn’t, I thought you would be sleeping, I just came to check on you, I-”

He smiled gently.

She had avoided him. His comfort. His touch. It was too much, he was too much. She wanted to flee desperately but she was not a coward.

“I am fine.”

“Why are you up at this hour?” She had not meant to snap but he was to be sleeping and she hated things not going as planned.

Impulsiveness was something Tyrion advised her to work on prior.

“I could be asking you that same thing but I am not.” Jon’s eyes had gone stonier than she was used to seeing for the last few weeks. He was a lot softer than he had let on when they had first met.

She sighed. “I was just shocked to see you awake, I apologize.”

“Why is it that you only wish to see me when I am resting?” he inquired, eyes laced with disappointment.

“Ser Davos told you?” she asked disbelievingly. She should not have been surprised, however, he had never attempted to make sure she did not come in either.

“You just did.” He smiled and bowed his head. Jon was really proud of himself at that one.

It was a glorious sight, though, seeing him smile. Tyrion was right, no one brooded or frowned as much as this King. _Lord. King._

She seemed settled on calling him Jon but he was a King, she recognized. A good King at that, may haps, a better leader than she. _He was right._

She shook her head. “I thought you may need a lot of rest and our conversations are quite- strenuous at times.”

She pursed her lips at her persistence of him yielding to her. It seemed silly now. Though it does please her that a man like Jon Snow believes she is a good Queen, she no longer wanted his submission. Not even slightly.

Frowning at herself, Daenerys knew that Lord Tyrion would disagree. There was still a chance at rebellion, but she trusted Jon to not allow that. If she and him make it out of these wars to come, she wished nothing but a long reign for the both of them.

Jon hummed in agreement. “Our conversations could be more pleasant but given the circumstances,” he trailed off and she gave a slight smile. “How are you?”

“Better knowing that you are alive and walking,” she remarked with a wave of hand and a tense smile, watching him gather his papers at the table he was sitting at.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” he started while turning his back to the mess of messages he was going to send. “We will be docking soon and soon after that heading to Kings Landing, if you are worried or scared, you should say it. If you are sad, you should share it,” he paused, “anything can happen now.”

She had sucked in a breath and stepped back when he started walking towards her, only for him to go to the candles beside the doors and extinguish them.

“I hope I was not too forward the other night,” he started again, clearing his throat, looking into her eyes. _Which night?_ she wanted to ask. “It was my fault, I should have stopped fighting and I didn’t. I cannot even imagine how you feel-”

 _Oh._ “You have lost people you loved before-,” she shook her head “It is-“

“I did not know that you could not-,” he motioned at his stomach. “I can’t imagine. I also realized I could have made you-,” he shook his head, “uncomfortable with my touches. I don’t really know you personally.”

 _After all they did?_ She let out a scoff, rolling her eyes. They were dancing around that night.

“They were not uncomfortable, I was just taken aback.” It was true. She was neither equipped at Dragonstone to handle his tenderness, taken aback then. That was sex, though. Eastwatch was-, not that.

“Why, surely you know comfort. Missandei seems like a woman of intelligence, passion and care for her Queen,” he laughed. She narrowed her eyes, wondering what Missandei said to him now. “She cares very much for you.”

The curly haired girl left an impression on him and Davos for sure. However, any woman made them nervous. Perhaps it was because she was intimidating and foreign.

“Missandei is not the King of the North,” She chuckled.

“Well, neither am I anymore.” She flinched. Her laugh died on her lips when he snorted. She could not fathom how relaxed he was.

“You could have died.”

He motioned to his chest and shrugged. “Aye,” he said softly. She was upset. “Go on, say what you want to say.”

“You would have left me here to deal with a family that just got you back, some you have not even had the chance to see again and a war to fight I know absolutely nothing about,” she started off composed. _He was right._ “You stand there so casually like many men like you come around, Jon Snow.”

“You either-,” she had cut him off.

“You are a hero and I have met far too many of them and watched them fall, die. I cannot, I will not listen to you speak so casually about your life,” she was vehemently speaking, completely unaware that Jon had walked away from her and started turning down his bed. “You are moral, kind, just-,”

“You are as well,” he started. “Your Grace, I have-”

“Daenerys,” she corrected.

“Daenerys,” he sighed.  It sounded lovely floating across his lips.

Her anger started to dissipate.

“I am the bastard of Winterfell, of a man people thought could do no wrong. I am the walking remembrance of a mistake he made,” he swallowed. “And I was treated, though, better than some, like I was no one to those I wanted to be adored by. My father tried so hard to show me the same love he gave his rightful borns, but he could not always. He loved me but I am still a mistake. I understand what it is like to not be wanted and to be casted aside, that is why me and that little lord of a Hand you’ve got-,” his hand waved back somewhere as he sat down.

“-Get along well. For most of my life, I had nothing to live for. I didn’t know why I was alive and I didn’t want to be. I see, I am, a protector of the realm now but it’s a hard mentality to rid of.”

This was the most transparent he would get, she supposed. Jon identified with her. But, she had fought so much and could not imagine being so casual about her life. Though now that she thought about it, she wondered if this is how Tyrion felt when she left. _No. He didn’t._

Tyrion held respect for her, fear for himself and their people, and maybe even, a normal sister like admiration.

She had this, adoration for this Northern man _._ She wished it was far more uncompromising than compromising. It was a complete stupid move on her part. An utter accident and now as she realized it, it was too late.

Swallowing his honesty, Daenerys said nothing.

She nodded and turned away to walk to the door, understanding. But she was not happy. He was special, to her, but it was not something that was appropriate to say.

“Wait,” the word rushed out of his mouth as he stood too quickly, stumbling. When he groaned at the dizziness and sharp pain, she was at his side instantly.

“Thank you,” Jon mumbled. “Davos told me, pain is a sign that I am okay,” he laughed. “It is bad if I don’t feel a thing.”

She inclined her head towards him and let out a huff as she helped ease him back on to the furs. She glared at him as he tried to lighten the tension that she was currently causing by shuffling his covers about, tucking the edges in.

By the time she gained confidence to look up, she regretted it immediately. His stares are intense. She was still in some way touching him, and the skin that was ice cold a few days ago had become increasingly warm. His stare was warm. His smile was warm. His eyes had completely forgone its coolness from earlier that night.

Her breath halted and she started to feel dizzy. She knew what it was to love and care, she understood the feeling and actions that came with those words.

Her heart was heavy.

She felt desolation and fear when Drogo died, but now her chest felt like it was going to collapse and it made her face heat and her eyes sting. There was a burning at her nose and her eyes went wide.

“Daenerys, look at me,” his words rushed out attempting to snap her out of her head. “What’s wrong?”

Everything was just moving too fast now. She felt very overwhelmed. In times like this she thought of her red door, her lemon tree, the comfort of her dragons, Missandei’s stories of butterflies and beaches, Grey Worm’s face when he saw Missandei, and Tyrion’s face as he saw wine. _Happiness. Relief._

“Daenerys!” he all but shouted. Jon’s face held a level of concern that she had not seen before. It could have been because of her blank stare and her grip on his downs.

She was usually collected and in control and she was crashing. She just wanted to come to the silence and calamity of his room, make sure he was alright but instead they argued at least twice, his hand has happened upon her skin far less than she would have liked and she was kind on some tears that she would love to keep repressed.

As she regained coherency, she swallowed down whatever saliva had formed in her mouth and stood straight. “I fear I have grown too fond of you, Jon Snow,” she bowed her head to him and sat up from the bed.

“Is that why you have chosen to avoid me?” His voice was soft.

“Yes,” she started. “That and I must think of what I am to do with my grief. There is no place for it within me right now.”

“Please don’t run from me.” The words had rushed from his mouth quicker than he anticipated. He had meant to hold them back but his unease, too, had begun to surface.  “I mean, we have so much to do, I’d appreciate if we could not let anything hinder our behavior towards one another.”

His fingers were intertwined with hers and then he gently pulled away. At least she knew that he was kind on her too but this was the opposite of what needed to happen right now.

They both understood that though it did not stop them.

“Tell me something Jon Snow,” she asked. “Something good, a story you are fond of, anything.”

He smiled again as she sat on the edge of the bed. She wanted to stay and that was the problem from the beginning of the night. She wanted to stay more than she ever had on the previous nights and it was because he was awake.

His voice both soothed her and raised gooseflesh on her body.

She knew many men. Men who loved her, men who desired her, men who shamed her and men who wanted her dead. But she could not grasp this Jon Snow. He spoke sweetly to her, yet contended her at every turn. He touched her with both sensitivity and determination. Spoke ill of war, but, Lord Varys had been right, is a great warrior.

He said he was an outcast yet he talked of his youngest sister like she was sunshine herself. He laughed as he recalled a night with his eldest brother, Robb Stark, who he had frowned after initially mentioning but it did bring him peace, she noticed, talking about good days.

He sounded as if he had this great family and she envied him too. He acted as if he had no care for his life but could go on and list the people, people he has known most of his life, that he had to fight death for.

He spoke of women so highly. Especially his sister, Sansa, which left him with such passion in his eyes, Daenerys had almost resented her. He spoke of a Sam and a Gilly. Ghost, his dire wolf, too.

He asked her to return some stories and she hadn’t nearly as many that were good. Most of them came months after her initial marriage to Drogo-, her learning Dothraki, learning how to be a lover.

He had raised his eyebrows and she had explained to him she was very young when she married and that she had initially thought she was to marry her brother, it was their way. However, she knew nothing of being a wife. So, she learned her _duties._

He had questioned why she thought that was fun and she supposed that it was not quite fun, but that it was a great feeling to turn such a negative situation into something positive. It was something she grew to cherish entirely.

She also spoke about her childhood, well her red door and lemon tree, and how that and the birth of her dragons were her fondest memories. He asked how she did it- birth her dragons, and she explained her dreams, her visions. This feeling that bubbled in her belly.

She felt their vibrations and she was often overcome with this overwhelming sensation to put them in fire. She tried to explain that it was because they are her blood. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of a dragon.

When he didn’t fully understand her, she simply stated she made a blood sacrifice.

He, of course, frowned.

She also told stories of Missandei’s, her closest friend. The closest thing to an actual sibling she has ever had. Their time hair braiding and speaking different tongues, talking about the books they have commonly read or what Missandei is currently reading, about the mysterious commander of The Unsullied whom he now knows Missandei is fond of.

Davos was sure to be disappointed. Jon laughed.

He had explained Davos’ fascination with the curly haired woman’s culture and home. He was completely enraptured in the idea of never marrying, no bastards and consistent hot weather. To that she also laughed.

“He may have even liked Meereen,” she added. “My wardrobe is not cut out for Westeros, I have noticed,” she paused. “Most of them far too light or scant, or too “boyish” and foreign.”

“You are a Queen, people will dress like you, not you- them,” he stated.

She supposed he was right. They continued to talk about how nice and white it was in the North. He recalled her saying that she had never seen snow before. He apologized that it was like this that she had been introduced to it.

Jon could not wait for her to see Winterfell. This trip was a bad experience but his childhood home-, she was going to love the snow, the woods and the hot springs.

They spoke for hours, and had dozed off somewhere along the way. It was him to sleep first because Jon would have never let her stretch across the bottom of the bed as if she were a kitten or a pup. He would have attempted to get her back to her chambers or put her beside him.

 

 

Daenerys was surrounded by her halo of white hair and furs when Davos bounded into the room early noon. He was sitting upwards, nodding off and she was completely gone so they were startled. “Oh, apologies.” He eased out of the room leaving Daenerys’ heart racing and Jon alarmed. 

He popped back in and said, “We are docking soon, so you two might want to, um, you know, wrap it up before, well-” he muttered pointing wildly as Daenerys blushed.

“Thank you, Davos, please leave, I’ll call you when I’m ready,” Jon clipped. Davos hurried with a thin smirk on his face.

“You did not have to be mean,” she turned her head.

“He was making your cheeks turn red and he enjoyed it,” he started, “don’t let the old man fool you.”

She rolled her eyes and stretched her way out of the bed. She was quite rumpled and embarrassed at her disheveled appearance. She should not have been. He was out of the library by the time she woke up that morning and she did not remember being a decent sight then either.

Her braids had come undone, her eyes slightly puffy and her lips very pink and swollen from her sleep. Jon watched her intently as she smoothed down her fabrics.

“I am going to go get ready, I shall see you later, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

Daenerys made way to her chambers with a tight smile and groomed herself. She bathed fast and got redressed. Jorah had come into her chambers as she packed the notes she had made over the last few days.

They were descriptions of her accounts of the Night King and his army. Things she thought they could do, questions for Jon she thought she should have asked last night. However, when he started to open up, she had started to feel nice. She did not think to ruin it then as she would soon do it.

Silently walking out with Ser Jorah to the boat that would take them ashore, she saw Jon being helped into another and Gendry, the boy Davos was fond of, along with a very big man who’s name she learned was “The Hound,” guarding the Wight.

 

 

***

 

 

Her meeting with Tyrion went as expected. He nodded his head towards her but as soon as they were alone in the war room he pulled her down and hugged her.

When Jorah did it, out of initial shock, she was so still, afraid of the comfort but when Tyrion did it, she welcomed him.

“I’m so sorry,” they breathed at the same time. She wanted to sob.

 _Compartmentalize,_ she took to scolding herself, forcing her eyes shut.

They both knew they were wrong on parts. If Daenerys had not gone, their mission would have failed and they would have all died anyway. She went and her child died.

“We have to fight with him. If we cannot get a cease fire-,” she trailed off.

“We will. I assure you.” She frowned. Tyrion could not make promises but he was adamant this would work. She wanted to trust him. No, she did trust him. She did not trust his siblings.

“Jon Snow, he was injured. He almost died, they all almost died,” it was a rush of words. She proceeded to shake her head when Missandei walked in.

“Jon Snow, always “almost” dies-  all of them I hear almost die, all the time,” Tyrion let out a timid smile as Missandei rushed to Daenerys.

 

+ 

 

It was a nice, honest moment. Tyrion did not want to ruin it but they did indeed need to talk. He did not desire it in the least. He wanted her to grieve but they needed to discuss every possible unfortunate thing that could happen. And The worst that could happen, seems to always actually happen.

After excusing Ser Jorah to rest, the conversation started rather quickly.

“That is your thinking face-,” Missandei frowned.

Tyrion had grown to know the girl far better than he would have ever thought. He guessed her lover and friend being away gave her a need for a distraction that he would happily take advantage of.

Missandei was a complete battle of wits and intelligence. Between her, him and Varys, they had concocted copious amounts of plans, so far off from the relative reality for when they got bored or ridden with worry. Eventually they settled down and discussed the many clever schemes they thought his sister would actually play with.

“It seems more demanding than usual,” Daenerys sighed. _Good._ She was putting up her queen face.

“These are more demanding times than usual, unfortunately.” Tyrion pulled a chair next to the fire in similar fashion to the weeks prior. “I do not actually want you to have to talk about it now but I fear-,” he paused.

Tyrion often held his tongue in fear of arguments. As they neared the throne, the more irate and impatient The Queen got.

“Out with it, Tyrion,” she demanded softly.

“You wrote to me that Jon Snow bent the knee,” Tyrion swallowed his wine. “I do not know-, I feel there are a few things to consider now.”

They looked to be getting along swimmingly. _Slow it down,_ Tyrion told himself.

“I no longer think it is a decent idea,” she mumbled. Tyrion’s mouth snapped shut while Missandei took his goblet to pour him more wine. “The northern men, they are proud indeed.” This was made clear with his months of defiance.

“There has been talk of rifts forming in the North according Varys’ little birds,” Tyrion started waving his goblet around, insinuating that they are everywhere. He also made a face that if this was any other conversation or day, Daenerys would have snorted.

“They fear your beauty may take affect on him,” Varys voice echoed from the door. He took slow steps into the council room.

Daenerys paled.

“Which it has,” Tyrion continued for him, inclining his head as if to remind her of their previous exchange, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I am so very sorry for your loss, Your Grace,” Varys bowed his head to which she replied with a nod and a thank you. “The two Stark girls, they seem to be entering a bit of a hostile place,” Varys started fixing to sit at the table with Missandei. He let out a dramatic sigh and rubbed his head.

“The North are talking about not wanting him as King because he came here,” Missandei finished with a shake of her head.

The conversation had been preplanned.

She had not been gone too long and everything kept going more wrong.

Daenerys blinked twice, trying to control her eye roll of frustration and anger. Her hands had begun to shake in retaliation. “This man risked his life coming here for them, and this is how they repay him?” she questioned.

Tyrion nodded, suspicious at her passion. “There is no way the North would win without, at the minimum, me.”

“And who were they thinking to replace him?” she inquired, no longer bothering to hide her irritation.

“His sister, Sansa Stark,” Varys stated. The Queen huffed.

Tyrion had praised her immensely; Sansa Stark. But Daenerys did not control her displeasure with the northern girl.

“And what is she doing to combat The North’s disloyalty?” she asked heatedly. The rooms level of discomfort rose slightly. It was radiating, mostly, off Tyrion who chose to always play devil’s advocate. He did care and sympathize with the northern girl.

Sighing, raising his hand to calm her. “It is not disloyalty yet,” he offered.

“Speaking ill of your king, desiring a new leader is treason, disloyalty,” Daenerys rebutted without hesitation. Her eyes blazed with infuriation.

“She is defending him but I know she is preparing for the worse,” Tyrion leaned back into his chair. At least now she can understand that a lot of northern men are not Jon Snow.

“Does he know this?” Daenerys turned her head to Tyrion.

Leaning further into his seat, he spoke, “That is why I am going to speak to him,” Tyrion sighed.

“But, Your Grace, I fear for your safety and reign if the northern territories rebel against their King or now, Queen,” Varys started again.

“What do you suggest I do?” she groaned. She was forced into a corner with no solution. They were losing at all ends now, Tyrion gathered although, certain he could find a way out of it. Not an answer, but an out.

“I suggest you consider all options,” said Varys ambiguously. Tyrion frowned. _Not now._

“You have not given me anymore,” she added. “It is either, I give The North back their independence, which I want to, or I don’t.” Tyrion smiled at her adeptness. Her attitude was getting out of control now, as they seemed to be talking in a circle, not clearly saying anything.

He wanted her to think. Use her gut. She would not listen to her thoughts before and he was not keen on sharing any of his pessimistic feelings. The gods blessed him, for she did not have the power of telepathy. “Either way it is unfortunate. If he dies-,”

“And he seems to have a death wish-,” Missandei muttered as a reminder.

“The North will be problematic,” she finishes acknowledging Missandei with a nod of her head.

There was a long pause and an expectant glance from Varys.

Tyrion groaned softly. “Well, we were talking-” Tyrion opened.

“Where you all talking or just you?” Daenerys examined.

“Missandei is actually quite the conversationalist when the commander is not here,” Tyrion remarked. He raised his glass towards the advisor and took a swig. _Change topic._

“Nevertheless,” said Varys, returning to the topic, “We were thinking that we could form a treaty of sorts.”

“A military alliance,” Tyrion continued, restating his own words.

“Or one more sacred in nature,” Missandei said softly in extension. Daenerys eyes snapped harshly towards the woman.

“Like?” Daenerys narrowed her eyes at them.

In their days spent preparing, they also put time aside anticipating The Queen’s responses and feelings. They thought through every possible rebuttal she would have, what she would instigate, what should abruptly call off and what she may consider.

Everything also depended on who’s mouth the words came from.

Tyrion wanted this to conversation to happen, but not now. His fellow advisors did not agree.

Jorah had once spoke of Daenerys being soft and maybe once she was, but now she was sharp around edges and hard on the surface. Beneath, The Queen was more understanding but she refused to be transparent or spineless.

“Marriage,” said Missandei loftily, “a foreign concept to me, however, both him and Davos seemed quite familiar with the idea,” she paused then added, “he isn’t awful looking or cruel.”

Tyrion watched the color drain from The Queen’s face. Not what he was expecting.

“There are far worse people to marry-,” Varys echoed. These were Varys words and though Tyrion agreed, he was not sure this was the best idea in the short run.

“The point of marriage is-,” Daenerys was about to go off when Varys interrupted her, “To bring alliances, treaties, peace, prosperity, power, control, stability, a future generation-,”

Tyrion saw the pain flash in her eyes and knew this was the time for them to be by themselves. _Something happened._

“May I speak to The Queen alone, please?”

Both Varys and Missandei got up with hesitant looks on their faces. This was not a part of their proposal.

While Varys just bowed and took his leave, Missandei walked to Daenerys and squeezed her hand in assurance. Her long skirt billowing after her when she turned to depart.

“Why would you even bring that up?” The pain in Daenerys voice was palpable.

“I did not,” Tyrion said. “Varys did.”

She was a shrewd woman. He let the conversation happen.

He should have stopped it.

“I can’t have children,” she stressed. She hated uttering the words and she had repeated them more times in the last few weeks than she would have liked.

“You have not tried.”

Daenerys’ time with Daario Naharis proved to be entertaining but not the copulation of a lifetime. It was a distraction, Tyrion knew. He was amusing.

“That witch that poisoned my husband said my womb was cursed.”

“What else was she to say?” Tyrion questioned. “Yes, you will have children again. I doubt that would have hurt you.”

“He seems to like you, Your Grace,” Tyrion added, positive Jon loved her. The man had always been moody but in her presence, he no longer sulks to a maddening level.

“He also seems to have a death wish.” Daenerys did not deny the idea of Jon fancying her so Tyrion knew that she thought this as well. What Tyrion found interesting was her avoidance of talking about it further and the absence of her denying any reciprocation.

Tyrion would be lying if he said he had not hoped for this. This was a good long term plan. Jon had no real desire for power, leaving The Queen to her responsibilities. But she was highly resistant which meant she cared more than he had intended for the moment.

“Then you have all seven kingdoms,” he retorted.

“Still chance of rebellion.”

“There is chance of rebellion in all cases.” Tyrion was exasperated. “They are The North!”

“So, what is the difference? I like the idea of a written alliance with the North better,” she shook her head.

So did her dismissal was worrisome. When thinking about her marriage options, she was limited. Jon Snow, that Arryn boy or his brother would offer her the most promise. And one was naught but a child, she hated Jaime, which left Jon Snow.

“Maybe if he sees you as an equal, not you greater, and he lesser, perhaps they’ll accept you. And if you are able to conceive and have his child, he or she will rule, you will have a successor.” The North would have their blood in power, something they have always desired. The plan is to break the wheel but after this long night, who would attempt to seize power?

In critical times, people become more sensitive to the accuracy of their leaders. It was safe to have a child born from two united, likeminded and gentle hearted people. They are mostly loved by their own now. If they won the war, they would not only continue to be heroes, they would be worshiped.

If they could somehow get the war to extend a few more moons and a child born, they both die, but the war was won, the child would be seen as a great fortune for the realm.

“What if I can’t conceive? Or even die in childbirth, or we both die,” Daenerys spoke harshly.

“Then there will still be a successor or a trusted monarch, an alliance with The North and you both will choose a successor or find a different mean through, perhaps, a trusted council, a vote, through your loyal people-,"

The wheel was going to be broken either with one respectable family governing the realm or some other way to form a sense of utility. But she needed to accept that it could not just happen with a decree.

“What if he wants children. I have told him that I am barren,” she said exasperated.

Tyrion’s eyes tightened. “And he doesn’t look at you any less, does he?”

“Tyrion.”

“Daenerys.” He watched his queen carefully. She liked him. This was good but the depths were rather frightening.

He promised Varys he would speak with her on this. And this is something he would have pushed her towards in the future.

She needed to cooperate.

Present this as an idea to the northern people, gather their trust. Assure them there would be a northerner with significant power. It is what they have always wanted.

But-, love, this was something he hoped he did not have to account for, not this soon.

“You are quite bold today,” Daenerys remarked with a frown.

“Yes, I am. I have to be.” Perhaps he made leg way with her.

“Who else did you speak about this to?” She questioned.

“Just us four.”

“Keep it like that.” _Perhaps not._

“Your insecurities will get in the way of the best possible outcome.” This was a time where Daenerys would surely think him to hold back and he did not. It stunned her into a stupor. “I am truly sorry, Your Grace, but we will soon be discussing strategy and within the following days we are set to sail. There is a lot that needs to be decided. Ravens need to be sent. Even with a cease fire, we will still be at a silent war, a cold war. Two wars.” Tyrion’s voice held the importance of the situation.

“I shall call Missandei in to help you get ready for supper,” he muttered softly.

 

 

***

 

 

Dinners had been long affairs. Lord Varys and Tyrion suggested they gather together for suppers now, much to Daenerys’ dismay. She would have definitely enjoyed being alone or it being just her advisors once again.

The dimly lit cave was always packed with food that seemed to take more time than usual to eat and evenings mostly revolved around Ser Davos’ shameless flirting and Tyrion tossing her wary looks.

She was becoming detached.

Her eyes often wandered everywhere from the orangey glow of the fireplace, to the massive candles to the light patters of rain against the outer parts of the cave. Everywhere besides the King of the North.

She had refused much eye contact for her fear of revealing to him the contents of her conversations with her advisors and revealing to her advisor any hint at intimacy between them.

Lately she had spent hours getting ready with Missandei, freeing her mind of Tyrion’s brutally honest words. They had hot baths and spent a lot of time combing each other’s hair to ease her tension.

She remembered she took at least 100 strokes to her scalp daily and spent more time than routine, weaving intricate braids through her friend’s curly mane.

She had even smoothed oils all over both their bodies and searched the depths of her wardrobe finding them matching outfits they had not worn yet.

It had been a long time she wore something beautiful.

Daenerys buried her sadness with frivolities, slipping into silk black dresses that curved to her body. She was in mourning.

She dressed Missandei, who got cold faster than her, in similarly fabricated outfits, but rimmed with fur, and far less revealing, doing everything physically to cover up her inner turmoil.

She even cleaned her entire chambers with a frowning Missandei on a bench, eyeing her. Opened messages from Meereen, reading through new information gathered by Daario.

And she was sure to not ignore him, in fear that he may do something damaging to her Queendom as she was no longer there.

She also busied herself with numbers, as they would not give her peculiar feelings or argue with her.

Before arriving to dine one night, she had given brilliant smiles and dazzled the northern guards with politeness that she made sure did not seem fake.

Tyrion knew it was though. Her eyes were lifeless, for they did not hold neither the exasperation nor the mischief and tease they usually did. But the northerners did not know that.

An unusual amount of activity seemed to have taken place in her absence. It weighed on her. But she refused to allow people to handle her work. And she did not want anyone else to make her decisions as these were not just choices for her. These were the choices of her people, their safety.

These were the choices of the Northern King; his verdict could mean his lack of opportunities. And she did not even want to touch the ladder.

Daenerys already knew that no matter what happened at Kings Landing that she would go north. It was just a matter of her promises to her people, their protection and what she owed them and herself.

 _Or they could all just die._ Her thoughts became dark as she stared at her wine.

“Your Grace?” It was Jon’s gruff. Her head snapped up and façade settled into place.

His voice did not sound too brusque. It held a nice silky undertone to it. She hummed in response clearing out of her daze.

With a clear throat he said, “I have a favor to ask.”

She nodded towards him to continue after looking towards Tyrion. Her lack of practice of Westerosi customs had been one of her short comings and her ability to analyze her settings well, were vital.

Though he was no better at manners, she was afraid to offend him at the moment. And those, especially, she was not supposed to.

Her awareness of her temper and emotional fragility now increased her trepidation.

“I have this friend who was working towards being a Maester,” Jon scratched his neck. “And he may have left the Citadel.”

 _A friend,_ Daenerys thought. He did not seem to make friends easy. He was all brooding and sullen. The friends he loosely talked of seemed to be strong and wise, very different in personality too. Left the Citadel, did not seem right.

Daenerys even wondered how Jon Snow could be around someone as mentally dynamic, open and personable as Tyrion. “May have or did?” Tyrion’s eyes lit with rambunctious curiosity.

By now Jon had pushed the remnants of his supper aside and leaned back into his chair.

“Well,” Jon made face, “He did.”

Daenerys eyebrows shot together. “He sent me a raven from an inn asking where it would be best for him to go and he is closer to here than Winterfell. He may be of more use to us than my sister. He is intelligent."

“So, what is the question?” Daenerys peeked up from her plate to see his scowl.

“Might I send him my boat so he can come to Dragonstone?” Jon gritted his teeth while a bit of annoyance climbed its way to his face in the way of forehead lines.

She wondered if he didn’t normally ask politely for things, for he always seemed hesitant angry when he did. Jon did seem more of the type to do things and ask for forgiveness later.

She did not say anything yet, thinking. The table held little noise, maybe a lazy utensil gliding along a platter or a cough here or there while heads turned from Jon to Daenerys a few times assessing the tension in the room.

It should have been normal by now.

Jon’s eyes traveled her face looking for any reaction but she remained perfectly resigned.

When he finally got her to hold his eye contact, it made her chest tighten. His stares were continuously consumed with raw emotion. He could seem cold and reserved at times but his eyes, truth was within his eyes.

With a wave of heat coursing through her body, she managed to nod once before her eyes returned to her plate.

Jon let out a small sigh before muttering his thanks and excusing himself.

 

 

***

 

 

She truly irritated him sometimes.

Jon had not made it far. He was not doing his incensed march down the corridor, taking his time walking along the stone walkways, clearing his head of her, finding his patience and understanding.

He wanted to be alone.

His nights were becoming increasingly troublesome, sleep continued to evade him. This sense of looming danger followed his every thought, casting an even gloomier shadow around him.

The only form of peace he had, came from her presence which maddened him more.

Tyrion called out to him.

Jon picked up his pace in attempts to discourage him from coming closer. It did not deter The Lord at all.

Jon could feel his patience thinning once more.

“So, tell me bastard, how did you get that lovely mark above your eye?” Tyrion asked between huffs after catching up with the King.

“What do you want Tyrion?” He did not stop moving, stepping quicker, desperately clinging to the idea that the half-man would tumble down and give up the notion of a discussion.

Jon even thought about pausing and telling him to fuck off but he did not want to be rude. He was already in a mood and he would feel bad about his lack of self-control later.

“I want to know how you got that mark above your eye,” Tyrion pointed upwards. The scar, like his others had faded considerably. The ones on his stomach looked far fouler than the ones on his face. He was not so embarrassed or ashamed by this one. He deserved it.

The scar itself brought up less kind memories. For many nights, he tried finding ways to have them stop reoccurring in his head. It never worked. Not until that night.

Closing his eyes, he pushed down the dull throb that started drumming in his stomach and gritted his teeth.

Sansa had told him he looked like a true warrior and smiled, she never questioned how he got any of them. Understanding.

Only asked if it still hurt and if she could touch it.

When she had embraced him after taking Winterfell back, she had kissed him where the mark on his face laid and swore that no matter what happened they would be in this together. With her red hair and her eyes full of trust, he almost doubled over in grief.

The silence between him and the Lannister carried on till they slowed their pace in the walkway to his rooms. He turned to look at his old friend. “Tyrion,” he sighed, exasperatedly.

“Jon Snow.” The Lord raised his eyebrow and nudged him to open his doors. Jon looked up to silently asking whatever gods were up there why they were inflicting such torture on him.

“I got attacked by a bird,” Jon muttered storming into his room leaving the door open for the clever man.

Tyrion let out a loud laugh. Jon had almost laughed too because of how much The Lord had seemed to find that amusing but it really was not a great story. “You are entirely serious?” Tyrion had thought he was joking when Jon had just stared with furrowed brows.

“Aye.” Jon turned around to feed the fire that he left running in his chambers.

He contemplated going to the terrace to have this conversation. Tyrion was certain to piss him off and the air would cool him down.

He gazed at it mindfully.

On more than one occasion in the middle of the night, the smaller one of the dragons had peeked its head through the stone opening, past the sheer draperies. Jon had thought himself to be dreaming until he felt the heat pour out of the beast’s skin.

Jon exhaled and looked to The Lord who had taken it upon himself to pull out a seat next to his working table. “What do you really want Tyrion?”

“How is my former wife?” The half-man inquired while sniffing around his refreshments for wine. Jon had stiffened and Tyrion made a face at both his posture and lack of intoxicating drinks.

“She seems fine from our messages.” Jon decided that delaying an answer would only make the man stay longer. “A little upset but-”

“A little?” Tyrion pried whilst leaning back into the seat.

“A lot,” Jon grumbled sitting down on one of the loungers. He rubbed his forehead and attempted to just breathe.

He is walking into a dangerous place in a few days with the north on edge, after almost dying. He’d lost The Queen one of her dragons and another family member died right before his eyes.

Jon looked ragged and felt worn.

“Do you know why?” His face rutted together at Tyrion’s questioning and motioned for him to get to it. “Varys heard that the north wants to overthrow you.”

He dropped from the hard look Tyrion was giving him, to the design of the rug. He thought it looked interesting. Winterfell nor Castle Black held anything like it, he thought trying to quell his disappointment.

He was not stupid, he saw that coming. The North was full of proud and fixed men like himself.

He spent far too much time here.

When nothing was being said, Jon looked up briefly to still see Tyrion’s appalled look. His face was void of any of the hopefulness that he used to have.

When Jon thought about it, Tyrion was not the same at all, more somber than high spirited. He was still amusing a lot of times but a cloak of melancholic followed him always.

“I expected that. Who are they planning to replace me with?”

Although he did not wish to be told, he still enquired. He knew. There was nothing he could do about it now.

Tyrion’s face dulled at Jon’s lack of reaction. “Sansa.”

“Good.” Jon tried to bite back is pride and failed. He neither wanted to show The Lord any sort of weakness nor feelings. 

“What?” Tyrion’s eyes widened.

“That is good. She’s always wanted to be Queen. She would make a good Wardeness,” he snapped.

“Jon,” Tyrion grimaced. It was not that Sansa wasn’t capable. It was that he renounced his title too easily. And Tyrion could not comprehend. As a child, he used to be so ambitious. He was naïve.

No one experienced would request this type of responsibility.

Jon stared blankly. He did not actually mean the words.

Sansa would make a respectable monarch, but now was not the time. Understanding and mild regret began to seep into his features.

The idea of going to The North without _the_ esteemed monarch was dangerous for The Queen. And they needed her. And as of late, much to his dismay, Jon felt as if he needed her as well.

“I never wanted to be king, Tyrion. I’m not here to make anyone happy or play politics. She can be in charge and play the game of thrones while I command the army. I want us to survive, that is all,” Jon snapped. _She._ Which she he was regarding was unclear.

A moment later he closed his eyes and exhaled for the hundredth time that day. He bent the knee so they would be in the care of a good ruler. Not weak against Cersei if they all lived. The Night King, he had his eyes on him. He could not survive.

“What about long after the war?” Tyrion expressed his worry.

“I’m not thinking that far ahead,” Jon admitted.

“They are,” Tyrion pressed. “They must believe that we will win so they are looking towards the future, as am I.” Tyrion folded his hands on his lap.

“You haven’t really seen them Tyrion, nor have they. You don’t know what it’s like and if they can’t understand that death is coming, and that this war is my priority, I do not know what to say, I don’t have anything to say.” Irritation and sadness finally seeped through to his face as well.

He was almost embarrassed to be having this conversation. He came this entire way in attempt to save all of their lives. And now he sat with a Lannister, trying to find ways to make the fatuity of a few lords inconsequential.

“Show me it.”

“What?” Jon stared, his lips curled in distaste. His eyes narrowed at the expression of revelatory understanding that graced Lord Tyrion’s features.

“The wight, Snow.” Tyrion got up from his chair and motioned for the door.

“Now?”

“Yes, I want to see. I have not been to the cellars yet and who better to inform me about these monstrosities than an expert in the field,” replied the small man. “You need to lighten up, drink some wine, tell me the tale. From bastard, to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, to King- the ladies must love that story.”

“We are getting ready to fight the deadliest war and that is what you think about? Where is there time for this?” he frowned at Tyrion’s attempts to deflect, wringing his hands together. He really wanted to avoid this in fear of his face illuminating his recent recklessness’s.

 “Oh c’mon, you cannot possibly tell me you have been celibate for the last, what is it? 7 years now and you are a King.” He cajoled. “It only takes a few minutes.”

“If you do it right it shouldn’t be takin’ a few minutes,” Jon muttered.

The ends of Tyrion’s mouth pulled into a wide grin as they made way to the depths of the castle.

“Ahhhh, yes, please do not tell me you went to those horrid places you lot call brothels in The North. Tell, me who was the lucky girl who got to claim Jon Snows honor?” he quipped.

Jon’s face fell immediately.

It would have been a decent job of him hiding his heartache it if it had not been Tyrion he was with. “Not a good story I presume,” the half-man offered. “There are always a few bad birds in the flock.”

“She was a good woman but it doesn’t matter, it is in the past.” Jon’s eyes glinted with an expression that Tyrion could not seem place. More sorrow and anger or even guilt surged in him. But his expression held a darkness. “All I care about is making sure unnecessary people do not die.”

“You are a good king, Jon.”

“I have not done anything,” he believed. Nothing any good leader should not have done.

“You came here.” Jon knew that Tyrion could appreciate a good mystery or two.

There was so much he kept to himself but secrets never stayed hidden. Jon was good, at least he tried to be, their father taught them well. But him coming here is the problem and for multiple reasons he would not say.

 

 

The castle had gotten chillier as they descended and where they were now smelled of must and death. It was damp and the air was rough. Tyrion looked around, not having been at the dungeons many times it seems.

Jon moved ahead a bit faster and was now talking to one of his guards. They got to the cage. Keeping The Lord in the corner of his eyes, Jon watched Tyrion inch closer. The absence of life was felt. There were only light sounds of rattling and a bit of snarling but nothing a normal person would not think to be more than that of an animal. Jon knew better now.

He banged the cage slightly, waited a few paces and the beast shot forward. The Hand of the Queen had froze when he first heard the snarling but his reflexes kicked in and he stumbled back.

The creature was a walking skeleton. Anyone could tell it used to be a person with its pelts and frame of a person but was it was desiccated. _“Gods,"_   Tyrion whispered.

“The northern men don’t like that very much.” Jon clarified that he was still talking about coming here. It was haunting him more than he cared to admit. Disappointing people who put their trust in him, it was something he desired to leave at Castle Black. This ate at him.

“It is not about what they like but how they survive, right?” Tyrion swallowed the uneasiness in his throat. “Do you really think you would have been able to win without us?”

“No.”

“How many did you say?” The Hand asked in a hushed tone.

“Hundreds of thousands,” Jon bit back another scowl.

“So, you have just increased their chances at survival by a lot. What can go wrong will go wrong, Jon. You care about your kingdom which is more than I can say for the past what? One, two, three, four, five, six kings and queens now,” Tyrion confessed finally looking away from the creature, stealing a look at Jon, studying his face. “What are you not telling me?”

Silence.

Jon diverted his gaze knowing it would be one of wariness and contemplation. Hesitance.

Tyrion waited, rubbing his hand together. Jon still said nothing, plunging his anxiety into the depths of his stomach.

“We need you, Snow.” He felt Tyrion’s gaze on him. “She needs you.” 

Jon swallowed, knowing she did not need anyone. “What can a northern bastard truly do for her?”

“Nothing.” Tyrion’s eyes where neither warm nor sympathetic. “But a northern king...”

Jon started to interrupt but was met with only a hand silencing him. “She had never met an equal, Your Grace.”

“I'm not.” Not really. Jon shifted, looking up to the tops of the caves.

“But you are. Your people chose you, despite your surname, as did hers. That respect, that honor-, it is highly regarded over here,” Tyrion said with a wave of his hand and earnest eyes.

“The horrors she has been through. You know, when she was pregnant with her former husband’s child, they say that she ate a heart whole, uncooked and uncouth.” Jon shrunk away, trying to gather her advisor’s words together in his mind. _She had been pregnant before._

“She turned a loveless marriage into a union that could have reigned savagery across all the kingdoms but instead, she stayed in her foreign lands and attempted the life of her Khalasar. She is naught but a young girl, still, but she has seen more horrors than most men and done more about it than any man has.” The passion in Tyrion’s eyes was hard to miss as he moved closer.

“In order to continue to see this change, your help is imperative, we have learned. The King in the North. A respected and living King in the North.”

 

 

***

 

 

Sam had gotten the raven from Jon quickly. The Inn he stayed at was accommodating nevertheless he was relieved. Little Sam had been fussier than usual and Gilly’s patience was wearing thin. Her discomfort was prevalent.

Neither understood what that meant. Only that it was making her and the baby uneasy.

She apologized earlier for her frustrations, reminding him that she was still appreciative but she felt ignored. 

Guilt surrounded him as she professed that she missed him. And when she told him that she understood that he was tense, he gathered her in his arms. He mumbled that he had to help Jon, he felt useless.

When he decided to leave the Citadel, he knew he would perhaps get into trouble later but if Daenerys was going to be Queen and Jon was King in the North and together they decided to fight, in the end, was there any trouble he couldn’t get out of? Gilly only made a face of worry.

He thought about the end frequently now.

Gilly’s patience would yield when she saw him looking at baby Sam in the night with distress. Sam feared many times before but now he truly understood dread. He did not want Gilly or little Sam to die.

It was why he truly left the Citadel. If anyone could stop this destruction, it was Jon. That he was certain of and that is where he needed to be, by his side.

“The winds are harsh,” Gilly said with wide eyes. “The other day it was so hot and wet outside. I thought you said the weather down south was always agreeable,” she mumbled it again, showing him what he had not noticed before.

“It is. Well,” Sam paused. “It normally is.”

The sky, which was normally a vibrant blue, was an uncomfortable dark grey. The air was thick and wet and the fog made it difficult for Sam to see further than a few feet.

“I’m not complaining. It’s just strange.”

Sam swallowed. Gilly was used to uncomfortable situations, and she could not seem to settle the worry that plagued her thoughts. She had not stopped fidgeting since he heard back from Jon. She was the calm one. Now, her breath would halt every time they hit a stone.

Sam’s face scrunched up at her look of dismay by the rocking carriage. It was worse than the normal movement of wheels on rocks and cobblestone. Gilly commented that she thought the whole thing could topple over or blow away at any moment.

Sam frowned looking outside. _They were going to be okay,_ he thought, but they needed to arrive at their ship.

The journey to the docks was going to be difficult.

 

 

***

 

One night Jon had a nightmare about a red woman. Death.

He awoke gasping for air, every nerve on his body exceedingly sensitive.

He felt down the base of his neck, smoothing away the panic that took up residence in his throat. Again.

Knowing he would not fall back, he rose, his feet touching the stone floor and made his way to a cloak.

He was suffocating.

Sneaking past Ser Davos’ chambers, he had a feeling he would find her tonight. And he did.

She walked out of the library, her Dothraki guard, Qhono, Jon believed his name to be, at her side holding stacks of parchment. He was the more respectful of her and her advisor’s personal guards, normally taking up residence at Lord Tyrion’s side, talking his shit quietly.

They briefly made eye contact while she slowed her pace, acknowledging his presence. The guard kept walking, taking his post at the end of the hall.

She never entirely stilled, only to bow. “Jon Snow.”

Her eyes were tired, voice hoarse, hair in disarray.

The nights were theirs. Full of silent truths. And serene companionship. The days, they seemed to go on, and on, filling with the stress they strained to keep at bay.

This evening though, Jon could finally see the loss on her features. He desired to reach out as he saw the pain sweep her eyes.

Her steps continued, shutting him away as he hoped she wouldn’t, but gathered, she did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is not my favorite chapter but it is a necessary chapter. It is setting the tone and the mindsets of some important characters right now.
> 
> But um, yes. From the previous chapter we saw Dany quite strong and brittle and she is now quite broken down and vulnerable. While Jon is, well, confused af. They will both be at heightened emotions for the next few chapters and it will go back to a less crippling emotionally driven thought process. Just wanted to let y'all know. I am really aiming for strong PTSD with them, inspired by one of my fav dramione fics by EveryThursday. 
> 
> SO Dany is def going to be going through this. And Jon, well, his Stargaryen magical abilities are going to shine through. His mind is essentially screwing him right now.
> 
> I mentioned in the comments that this will be more of a coming into intimacy slow burn fic as well as a war and perhaps restoration (if you want) fic. So it isn't just about them entirely, it is just heavily focused on them. Smut was nothing, I mean, it is everything, but openness and familiarity is what I am writing. Smut just follows ;)
> 
> Shoutout to that person that asked me not to kill Viserion, I am so sorry, love! omg If Viserion didn't die, I was going to go off on the whole Tyrion is a Targaryen storyline and ya girl was not prepared!
> 
> AND Finally, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH. I cried when I saw the response to this. I had a whole meltdown because I could not believe. I appreciate you guys so freaking much and I love hearing from you. After I saw the comments I was able to crack out another chapter in two days. I used to think it was bs about how much comments and love matters but it is not. It is so encouraging and I cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> Please leave some more! I may even update sooner because they are motivating and that means the faster I write, the faster I can update. I really want to get the next chapter up in less than four days this time (fuck my schedule), because I know this chapter is a bit of a filler and I hate when that happens to me as well.
> 
> Ask questions if you need more clarity on something, say "hey," anything really. I appreciate it so much! Thank you and I hope you enjoyed <3 xo Angel


	3. Pardon Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst, Advisement & Strategy. More inner turmoil. Jon decides to confront Daenerys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you get triggered by panic or anxiety attacks, be careful reading this too. Still sorry for the username change but I wanted to make sure y'all can find my tumblr which is i-am-small.tumblr.com. Still un-beta'ed! But Enjoy <3

The sun was lazily peeking through the openings in the guest tower. Though it had just barely risen, Jon could tell that the grey sky would eventually taper its brightness today.

It reflected his mood.

Padding his fingers lightly against the wood of the table, Jon took to organizing all the messages his sister had been sending him, updating them on the food supply. It was passable. But would not last a few months when Daenerys showed with her army.

Yet another thing he was required to address immediately, his eyes closed-, leveling his mind.

"The winds are in his favor, Your Grace." Davos said from the door.

The man’s beard had grown greyer in the last few moons, exemplifying his exhaustion. And as Jon did not give a response, the Onion Knight marched into his room disrupting his thinking, motioning towards the bed.

"I am well." Jon muttered, not in excessive pain.

He did not need Davos poking and prodding at him. He just wanted to complete what was necessary and attempt to sleep away the days till he got home to his family. Winterfell must be the key to his concentration.

Sternness littered Davos’ features since his time past the wall. He was being considerably short and watchful.

"Snow, if you die, we’re fucked. Let me have a look." Jon groaned, rolling his eyes, doing the same thing he did the night prior-, made for the bed, took off his shirt and let Davos examine and perhaps change his bandages. 

Jon glanced at the splashes of red and brown on the dressings and back up to Davos who might have been muttering something. They were not soaked but they were certainly not clean. Minor damage had been done beyond the wall. A few scratches, cuts, scrapes and bruises that were almost heeled. But he may have ripped out some stitches or tugged to much in his sleep, tossing and turning.

Davos grunted something else out but Jon was not listening. It obviously was not important enough for him to speak up.

"Tarly should be here no later than supper tomorrow," Davos voice clearly stated after a few moments.

Jon’s head snapped up at hearing Sam’s name. "That was fast." He missed having a brother around especially after spending time with Sansa.

“The winds are in his favor.”

“I heard you the first time,” Jon sighed, annoyed. It did not take long with decent winds to get to Kings Landing he’d heard Davos say when Tyrion first set for the meeting with his awful sister.

“Aye, and did you hear anything I said after that?”

“You weren’t talkin’.”

“You weren’t listenin’.”

“What did you say then?” Jon bit.

“That you don’t listen. You’ve one thing on your mind.” His Hand’s accent got thicker the angrier he got. “And that’s killin’ these things with no respect for your life.”

Ashamedly thinking Davos was going to mention her, Jon froze. She had been creeping into his thoughts regularly.

They had not talked about what happened before Eastwatch, both to his relief and disappointment. And anger for she had been in his mind far more than before, which had already been profuse. Further annoyance occurred when he concluded that they were now avoiding each other.

She was cynical, often angry and brusque again. But she also held this airiness about her that made him feel like she was a ghost. Jon kept telling himself that there was no way that she could be real. That any of what happened could be real.

Yesterday, Davos had frowned at him and fussed about how he’d bent the knee. He had argued with Jon that he was chosen and if he indeed read the messages Sansa was sending him, that he should be worried.

This, of course, is what led Jon to sorting through the ravens at sunrise.

As he opened them and saw his sister’s elegant penmanship. Neatly scrawled out were her concerns about The North and displeasure at the length of his voyage.

After reading them, just the words and deciphering her mostly irate but occasionally varying moods, he went back and marked all the things they must work out in today’s meeting for when they arrived in Winterfell.

Like he told Tyrion previously, Sansa could handle the politics. He firmly believed in Daenerys being queen and although he doubts that after Eastwatch she would attempt to truly conquer The North, he still thought that this was the least she deserved.

 _How long would The North accept a bastard on the throne?_ His mistakes were beginning to come back to him in a rush.

Daenerys cared about her people and the realm, and her ideologies coupled with her stories all made sense.

Jon had thought her to be mad when she did not believe him. She had three great beasts that the entirety of two continents thought to be extinct and yet she could not fathom the idea of an undead army? It mystified him.

He had originally blamed his recent thoughts on his latest near death experience and his night spent alone with her before and after that.

There was a longing to be near her now.

He decided that it came from her intelligence and kindness, after a long night of deliberation. Her strength was not brute, it was emotional, mental. She knew her own head. And her beauty, though, could just be seen as physical, was her mind and heart.

He had not been around much of that his entire life.

When Tyrion brought up his past lover, guilt swelled in his stomach. He had not even thought about her. Now all he could think about is how he had been breaking more promises.

Ygritte had been wild and needed discipline. She was strong-, physically but she lacked mental and emotional stability. She was all passion and recklessness with her fire kissed hair and slim body. If he thought about it enough, he would realize he still missed her, or at least yearned for what they had for that short time.

Her strong northern accent; the strongest he’s ever heard on a woman. Her freckled skin. Her unruly laugh at his reservations. Her incessant gibes. He hated that he wanted to feel what it was like to have someone entirely in love with him and care for just him. Not what he could do with a sword and his experience with killing. He wanted someone to tell him to fight for them, fight for each other, to make love below the night sky and wake to the rising sun.

She was a fighter. She never forgot about him up until her last breath and here was pondering an impossible queen.

Jon rubbed his palm against the wrinkles on his forehead. _There was absolutely no time for this_.

He wanted to go home. But he was a fool to think that his feelings would dissipate as soon as he felt the snow beneath his boots and see the gates to the castle open.

 

 

“I talked to Tormund.” Jon had completely forgot that his Hand was speaking. “He said you wouldn’t stop your swingin’ and you told them to leave.”

“The Night King started to go after her other dragon. I was too far.”

“Why didn’t you stop fightin’, Jon?” Davos’ voice cracked.

He was like a father to him, wise with his old age, full of knowledge though he cared similar to a mother. It was almost coddling and very fussy.

Jon grounded his teeth. He appreciated it but now was not the time for a lecture on how he’d failed and he definitely needn’t see Davos falter physically.

“The wights were trying to climb up the dragon. I-,”

“The lot of you could have kicked them off. Were you tryin’ to die? Show off-,”

“Don’t start,” Jon cautioned.

“You know what they are going to think.”

“I don’t care what they think.” Jon got off the bed and started clothing himself for the meeting. He tried to work fast and away from this conversation.

“How they thought made you king.”

“And now they don’t want me to be,” Jon snapped at his Hand, turning around so Davos could finally see the sting of betrayal lingering beneath his gaze. _Again._

“Because they feared that you’d end up doing exactly what you did,” Davos spoke softly getting up from the seat he had fallen into.

“Well it is done. I cannot take it back and I would not. I think this is what is best for all of us.”

“Do you really?”

“I thought you enjoyed her,” Jon said in low voice right before he went to open the door.

“I do, Snow, and if I wasn’t such a loyal man, I would be servin’ her too but I serve you. I care about you and your safety and it was risked. It’s in jeopardy once we get back north.” Davos paused. “Her safety is too.”

Jon hadn’t meant to halt. “What do you mean?”

“The northern men won’t be happy-,”

“She has two dragons. The lords aren’t senseless.” Jon rubbed his hands against his face trying to come to terms with what Davos was saying. Another thing to address.

“But they are prideful and pride makes you do stupid things.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jon had not spent a lot of time in the war room. It was so brief but today it mattered. His presence was necessary, not just wanted.

When he entered, he was met with a strong chill and an uncomfortable atmosphere. This room was used to remind those with noble birth that a fight was nothing to play with. It was an intimidating space even with the warm crackling fire.

He sucked in a breath and sat down opposite to where The Queen would be seated.

The meeting was slow and drawn out. Lord Tyrion talked a lot about how unpredictable his sister could be and who would be directly at her side. They shuffled board pieces around and spoke on contingency plans and how they could make fast escapes.

Daenerys wanted to intimidate the Lannister Queen but they had disagreed on whether they should bring both dragons.

Tyrion had suggested on abandoning the dramatics because while they were out fighting the big war, Cersei would still be seated on the iron throne thinking of ways to break down all their defenses.

Jon agreed with Tyrion however Daenerys had said there was no way to win this war especially with The North on their side. Which was reasonably true.

“That is assuming The North will not betray their King and you both make it out alive, Your Grace.” Jorah who had been relatively quiet since Eastwatch, spoke. “That is also assuming our armies and resources are not completely depleted after this.”

Jon squinted his eyes at the knight and shifted to Davos and then to Tyrion who inclined his head towards Lord Varys.

Jon wondered if word of the north’s favor to Sansa reached the Lannister Queen yet.

Daenerys who had been caught being arrogant looked down and then to Jon and back to Ser Jorah.

She nodded once.

“We want to show that we are currently here for peace,” Davos finally spoke.

“I do think Her Majesty is right, however, have Drogon stay close behind us,” The Spider said confidently, standing behind their queen. “Incase Queen Cersei decides to be an opportunist this day, the dragon will be able to save his mother.”

“She won’t,” Tyrion muttered.

“You said yourself that she was unpredictable,” Davos argued.

“Unpredictable not stupid.”

“She is fighting in a war she knows she cannot win,” Daenerys said disbelievingly.

“She does not think that.”

“Then she is stupid.” She snapped.

Her Hand sighed in frustration. “Your brother has seen what happened at High Garden. He must have told her by now. She is a fool if she does not believe her own lover.”

“With absolute no offence, Your Highness, arrogance is something she expects from a girl she thinks has three dragons. Do not prove her assumptions true because she can and will use that against you.”

Jon thought the Lannister to be right but he said nothing when he observed Daenerys narrow her eyes at her Hand. They were bold words. Ones that Jon would not have uttered as he did.

“Lord Tyrion may be correct. She must not see any weakness and she should not see all your strengths,” Lord Varys spoke. “You should be prepared for the worse but hope for a cease fire. Queen Cersei is most like her father and her father was one of the vital reasons why your families reign ended.”

Daenerys exhaled and nodded once before turning to Jon and Davos. “What about you? What do you believe?”

Jon turned to Davos who turned to him. “I believe Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys to be correct,” said Davos.

Jon knew it was him that she wanted to hear from, with that look in her eyes. He’d seen it on the ship back from Eastwatch. But he was still wounded from her most recent distantness, though appearing perfectly cordial.

He did not have much to say on the topic either way. Him and the half-man had previously discussed how this meeting was going to turn and so far, The Lord had been correct.

He decided to stay quiet and keep to the agenda until he was asked what else needed addressing.

 

Tyrion had gone over what was to be said in the Dragon Pit at least nine times now. Jon had stopped listening around the third.

He zoned out midway through Daenerys getting scolded by her Hand about her temper, urging her to remain in check.

Jon had smashed his lips together keeping his slight amusement. The Lannister Lord tried so hard to taper her fire but it would never work. It never works on solid women like her.

His sisters were the same. Both well-mannered, for the most part, and verbally practiced, but their craftiness and ferocity were held with loose bounds.

“Jon!”

His head lifted to meet The Queen’s stare. “Were you listening?”

His head shot to Davos which held a look of contempt. “For most of it, yes.” It was not a lie.

The Spider shifted in the back, eyes darting between The Queen and The King.

“I am sorry, Your Grace. I was thinking about some things I wanted to address. I was waiting for a moment to cut in.”

“Go on,” The Queen said tersely.

Jon bid a face of displeasure at her tone and explained that after a few moons that they would start running low on supplies when her army comes up north. Unless the cease fire with Tyrion’s sister is absolutely cemented, they would not all survive the winter for very long.

The Queen had turned to Missandei and Varys, there were some hushed whispers and a head nod from The Spider who had turned around to a stone shelf, fixing with some parchment. “We will carry what can be carried from High Garden and Casterly Rock up north to you. The remaining soldiers and people can import from Essos and continue to harvest here for as long as possible.”

There had been another argument about how they would get north. Jon had stated earlier that it would be best for them to arrive together, united, for her safety.

There were disagreements about The Queen’s protection once again and the conversation was left in the air as they moved on to the bigger issues of the Dragon Pit.

The Queen had made up her mind and agreed with his proposal by the end of the gathering.

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys had been tense all morning. She grew exhausted of hearing Lord Tyrion talk and even more tired of hearing what was going on all around the world from her Master of Whispers.

Maybe Daario had been right. _Could she sit up top a throne for hours a listening to problems that never seemed to end?_

As the meeting came to a close she heard Jon’s exhale. She thought he probably felt the same exhaustion she did.

No one else in the room besides Jorah truly understood what happened beyond the wall. His frustration was so palpable and understandable to her now.

Her entire demeanor was sour. _He had been right._

She smiled at Missandei and grasped Tyrion and Ser Jorah’s shoulder before nodding to Lord Varys, taking a piece of parchment from him and heading out the door, dismissing Qhono’s and Corro’s protection.

She did not bother looking at The King’s tired face. She understood.

Daenerys wandered the halls hoping to draw out time till she must ready for supper which would most definitely be another grating experience. She could have stayed with Missandei but she loathed looking to her and seeing worry in her eyes for Grey Worm. She, too, wanted her commander back, not just to oversee some of these security details but for her friend’s improved mood.

Daenerys also did not want her friends encouraging smiles on the topic of Jon Snow. It was a distraction. She knew what transpired between him and her. And Missandei had spent a lot of time, further, getting to know the northern troops.

She had known what they liked to feast on, what their clothing was made from, interesting stories of The North and most importantly what their king was like.

Missandei happily relayed the information as she braided her white hair at dawn.

Daenerys stubbornly said she no longer needed to hear from the mouths of others of Jon Snow’s kindheartedness and integrity. She saw quite well for herself.

“You saw him quite well, Your Grace?” The trusted advisor mimicked with a cheeky smile.

Daenerys had gritted her teeth. She knew she should not have spoken of The King’s scarred chest, damn her curiosity. She definitely should have avoided all talk of the warmth he carried in his touch but if she could not tell Missandei, she would not tell anyone.

She regretted it very much an hour into the meeting when her friend caught her staring at The King in the North. It was a terrible mistake.

She realized seeing him today, in her isolation, she missed him.

 

 

Daenerys had not noticed she wandered so deep into the pits of the castle. She had only been this low a handful of times.

Dragonstone was empty and cold. She could barely sleep.

When she first got to the island, she had snuck into Missandei’s quarters and stayed with her.

It was wet and dingy, daunting and strange.

One day, her and her advisor spent hours making it more accommodating with furs and linens, lighting thick fires and making it as homely as possible.

It did not work.

Daenerys knew subliminally that she would end up here before she left for Kings Landing.

The dungeons of Dragonstone smelled of musk and rain. It was eerie and haunting but she was not terrified. The whole castle was supposed to be home but it neither felt like a place of comfort nor security.

She had been only an infant in her time here so she had no fond memories. She had only heard the grim stories of her and her brothers escape and the tales of impossible sieges.

The entire castle was intimidating and the dungeons were of no difference, massive and vacant.

Stone alcoves lined the insides and they seemed never ending, no matter how hard you squinted towards the top. When it rained, trickles of water could be heard from any location and the bars seemed to remain wet even when surrounded by a fire.

It just remained damp and chilly.

Daenerys walked until she saw two northern guards by the single occupied cage. It should have been warmer in this area of the dungeon. But the air was brisk, dry and it smelled of rot.

The guards bowed, acknowledging The Queen to which she responded with a head nod.

She walked closer to the cage. “Careful, Your Highness.” One of the Northern guards cautioned stepping closer to her.

When she had first met the northern men, she wondered if they were all this stocky. She had seen men so slim and fast, she wondered how they fought until she went beyond the wall.

Strong, solid and unyielding.

Daenerys smiled to herself. “I am.”

“You may go.” Daenerys dismissed with a wave of a hand. They hesitated. Daenerys’ head snapped up to give them a pointed look. “Leave me with it, I will be alright.”

“Your Grace-,” One of the guards shifted and gave a look of discomfort to his partner.

“You may take your meal. It is behind the bars and you may leave with the keys.” Daenerys held up her hands to show she had no way to let the beast out.

She was not sure why they must have thought that. _Perhaps they think me to be so stricken with grief and wanted to off myself._

She did not know nor care. She just wanted to be alone with the monster.

“Go!” She commanded, finally. The guards took in a deep breath and shuffled away.

After Jon had returned, his guards took to her. They listened to her commands, normally. She was not sure if it was because she saved their leader or if he told them to obey her.

 

Daenerys slid her body to the hard ground and stared into the cage until she could see the pale blue eyes glaring at her. Her hands pawed at the damp floor as her eyes searched the creatures face. “Do you fear?” She asked it.

No movement.

It just looked at her and continued its light snarling, or biting, she was not sure. “Do you feel pain?” Another question that was left with little movement and response.

As her eyes adjusted she could see the thing clearly. Its nasty body was completely shrunken, rotted and dried. She wanted to touch it but her curiosity was not as strong as her exasperation would be because of her Hand’s lectures later. So, she just stared and sighed out her last question, “Can you understand me?”

Of course, it did not. Why would something so dark and twisted understand her.

She leaned her head back and wondered what would go through Cersei’s mind to not want to fight this.

If the Mother of Dragons could not win this war against the dead, what made her think _she_ could?

She had dragons. Queen Cersei had her mind _. Does the mind matter with numbers so large? Did these things even have intellect anymore? Why were they here? What did they want?_ Her head filled with questions she had no answers to.

The beast’s snarls increased with every drop of water that fell to the stone. It was a guttural yet whiny sound that reminded her of a broken instrument played by a dreadful musician.

It still had not moved.

But Daenerys heard footsteps.

She had been there for some time but not long enough for the guards to get adequate meals. It was probably Tyrion. She let out a frustrated breath and started to lift herself off the ground.

“Do not get up on my accord,” the rough voice that haunted her dreams echoed.

It startled her enough that she slipped on the damp ground and plopped back down ungracefully. She heard his gruff chuckle.

“How long have you been there?” Daenerys asked curtly. Her gaze followed his shadowed figure until he appeared from the walkway.

“Not very long.” Jon eyed her form with an eyebrow raised.

“I thought you were Lord Tyrion,” she mumbled. “Your guards told on me.” She thought they would tell someone or someone would notice but she thought Ser Jorah or her Hand would surely come for her, not him.

Jon leaned against the cave wall watching her not look at him.

“You asked to be left alone with the wight, what did you expect?” His tone held an incredulous sound, though his face remained as knit together as usual.

She wanted to laugh though. How easy it could have been for these guards to have left the cage unlocked, and she get murdered by it. _Farewell to the Targaryen Queen_ , making all the northern and southern lords pleased.

Her face soured.

“Lord Tyrion,” she admitted, face contorted. Jon paused mid step.

He had been moving closer to get a better look at her. She was so small when crouched on the floor. He looked to be discontented with her tone

“Aye, I can leave and go get him, if you’d prefer.” He turned to leave before she could get a word out.

“No!” she called after him. She should have let him leave.

“What are you doing down here?” He turned around, frowning when the wight’s snapping intensified.

Jon did not seem to want her near the thing.

Her body warmed.

He took off one of his gloves that he had been wearing while moving towards her. She attempted to swallow saliva down her dry throat as he reached his hand down to her.

She stared at it.

He wanted to help her up.

She took his palm and was pulled up swiftly. They were calloused and strong, just as she remembered.

Her body ached at the thought.

Retracting immediately, she bowed her head in thanks.

She moved closer to the cage and gently kicked a stone towards the gate. “Reminding myself who the real enemy is,” she said, head turning to the side slightly.

She wanted to get a read on him but his face was eternally grim. “You’ll get your throne,” he assured her though he did not look enthused about it.

“I thought you were not a liar, Jon Snow.”

“Aye, if we make it through the long night, you will get your throne.”

Daenerys let out a long shaky breath and a bitter laugh. “All this time traveling to take back my father’s sovereignty only to get so close and have to turn away and fight a great battle first.”

Jon bit his lip as if he was holding back words. His expression shifted as he watched her watch him.

“I was going to have one of your guards come find you after this,” she motioned around the cave and pulled out a piece of parchment from her sleeve. Jon gave her a curious look but she just motioned for him to take it.

“It is a list of supplies. You may take count and divide as you wish. The Dothraki will survive as long they have sufficient furs and can hunt. We may fish and salt them on our way by boat.”

He bowed his head slightly with his nod. What should have been an awkward movement had anyone else done it, only seemed nimble with The King. “Thank you, Daenerys.” She sucked in a breath.

His throaty voice reminded her again why she had been miserably avoiding him.

She began to walk away but Jon had grabbed her arm.

She looked at him, his hand. So easily he could fit his fingers around her limbs and toss her but he never hurt her at all.

Noticing once again the face that made him say sorry on the ship, he withdrew and apologized quickly. “If Cersei Lannister gives the ceasefire what will you do after this war?” he paused. “What will you do with her?”

"There is no absolution in my kingdom, Jon Snow." Daenerys face was somber but her voice was steady. It held no hesitation. She looked up to Jon to read his expression. 

His brows furrowed as he glanced at the beast in the cage. 

"But it is not just my kingdom yet." With that she turned away from both him and the monster without a glance. And his eyes followed her form till he could no longer see the silver of her hair. 

 

 

***

 

 

He wanted to send the list of supplies to Sansa and rest before supper.

Jon grew intensely uncomfortable by his thoughts and his limbs ached to be exercised. He believed that perhaps if he could train, he could run away from them.

Davos cautioned him but saw the intense yearning to be anywhere besides his chambers.

The island was considerably beautiful. The stone formations were unlike anything he had ever seen with its combinations of metallic, light and dark greys.

As he had run past certain parts of the land, he would see children playing around and women cleaning cloths. He had seen some Dothraki men train around the island when he first arrived but he had not seen any of those remaining today, only the women cooking what looked to be horse meat.

Inside the castle, it was dreary. Outside the castle, life surrounded them. Homes were built. People were happy.

He had not bothered to look before. Perhaps that was why Davos and Lord Tyrion were rarely seen inside the gloomy fortress. Always walking hastily outside.

He had drilled and ran around the island in his armor until Ser Davos waved him down to get ready for their meal.

She had created a small realm on the island but no one could notice from afar.

Jon mentioned it to Davos while getting prepared to which Davos nodded. His Hand had been talking to The Queen’s companion who had been showing him around and teaching him common words in Dothraki and High Valyrian.

Jon questioned Davos’ curiosity for the foreign tongues. Davos chided him gently and said it might be worth it for him to know some as well if these soldiers were coming back with them. _It was diplomatic and smart,_ Davos had calculated on the way to dinner.

  

This time supper was more tolerable.

He was not sure if it was the steam that he blew off running about, instead of being locked in a room for days or being so close to going home. _Or speaking to her._

He would be back at Winterfell in about a moon if all went well.

Lord Tyrion made it such an event to sit them all together and Jon queationed why during dinner.

He realized that after he mentioned it that he sounded rude so he gave the small man an eyebrow raise. “Do you no longer enjoy my company, Jon Snow?” The Lord inquired.

“Who said I ever did?” Jon’s lips pulled into a grin.

Tyrion waved his finger at him and took a sip of wine. “I cannot believe the last time I saw you I was pissing off the wall. You barely had the birds nest on your chin.”

“You are one to be talking,” Jon huffed out with a smile.

“It has been rough.”

Jon noticed her silently joining the room in another gown that looked as if she was draped in silky onyx. Her eyes glittered at the liveliness of the room.

He stood to bow and everyone else followed between their laughs at Tyrion’s facial expressions.

When they all sat back down, Jon shifted in his seat and diverted his eyes slightly. “Aye,” he returned to Tyrion.

 

+

 

She glided across the room to Tyrion’s chair and touch his shoulder with a kind familiarity. “I have been trying to get him to cut it for some time now.”

Ser Davos pulled her chair for her, waving the guard away. She thanked him and continued listening to her Hand’s banter.

“I think I look better with it, more rugged and dangerous,” Tyrion noted stroking his beard.

“To be honest, you do look better with it,” Jon acquiesced.

“Are you saying I look handsome with my beard?”

Jon’s faced bunched up at the absurdity, “No, I’m saying you better with one than none.”

While Jon and Lord Tyrion argued lightly back and forth about men’s grooming, Daenerys reached over to her advisor’s wineglass and swiftly took it.

She had hoped to be discreet, focusing on her quickness of her movements. She had not noticed Jon’s eyes which had found their way trailing up the curves of her body.

Lord Tyrion’s eyes followed Jon’s with a lifted brow and found his queen slinking away from his supper setting.

“Hold up just one moment!” Tyrion’s whine echoed through the walls as he tried to snatch the cup from Daenerys hand. “What are you doing?” he asked as she sat smoothly down in her chair taking a taste from the goblet.

“No more. Sobriety will do you good when we sail,” she inclined her head towards her Hand and his displeasured face.

Daenerys eyes scanned the table after a laugh had come from Ser Davos who had been listening to Missandei’s commentary.

Her advisor had lifted her glass to the her in acknowledgement and smiled. Tyrion was going to turn her into a drunk.

Daenerys eyes went to Jon’s whose looked far away until they glanced at her. She had nodded towards him and took another sip of the summer wine.

It had been a while since contentedness swept over her. It had been a decent dinner.

Jon had actually laughed at her Hand’s attempts during their meal. Missandei and Tyrion led most of the conversation. She insulted his Dothraki on multiple occasions and he continuously made her tell terrible jokes that were funny only to Ser Davos and one of the northern guards that had stood near the entrance.

 

+

 

Supper continued till Lord Varys excused himself to tend to his responsibilities. His exit had held a hint of peculiarity that made Jon frown in discomfort.

Following the Master of Whispers departure, Daenerys excused herself announcing that she was to feed her dragons and get rest.

Tyrion had given Jon a pointed look and motioned to the sundial that stood on the terrace.

The mood of the room had been great.

No one stood dreary and he heard Davos laugh which was great sound in comparison to his complaining at sun-up.

Jon sighed and bid a somber goodnight to those that remained in the room and departed to get his cloak. He needed to speak to her.

After wandering the land a bit, he found her on a secluded part of the island. She looked minute next to the dragons from where he was standing.

The green one noticed him first and lifted his head.

Daenerys was not paying him attention though, she was next to Drogon who had made eye contact but ignored him.

As Jon moved closer, he walked confidently in attempt to not deter the dragons from their feed.

The nearer he became, he grew warier. He was not sure of their reactions, but standing a few feet from them, he could see that they were not doing much eating-, rubbing against their mother similar to felines. Colossal felines.

Jon took a deep breath too assure that his voice remained steady before he spoke.

“You know, I did think they were hideous beats.” Daenerys snapped around while still palming her sons face. “Then I saw them breathe fire, I heard their calls, I saw their protectiveness over you. It reminded me of my wolf. They aren’t that much different, are they?”

Daenerys’ eyes raked Jon’s form raising an eyebrow at his addition of armor. He stood securely and firm. “Are they growing on you, Jon Snow?” Her voice sung before she smiled.

“Aye,” he let out a laugh. “They scare me a hell of lot though.”

“They should,” Daenerys said seriously. “They normally do not get taken down that easy.” Her face held a grimace. “Rhaegal is quite frustrated with me. He is being slightly more gloomy than usual.”

“Drogon seems fine,” Jon noted as The Queen stroked the his dark scales lovingly.

“You know it is funny. He is generally the most hostile and wary,” she scrunched her face as she looked off into the distance. “I think he feels my discomfort. He knows I understand but he is still not happy.”

“Rhaegal does not?” The name was funny on his tongue.

“Not as much as Drogon. I am bonded to him,” Daenerys smiled warmly to her child who purred with her every touch.

“Bonded?” He questioned.

“Dragons, they have one rider for life and both them and the creature bond.”

“You have three,” his eyes went wide before he corrected himself, “had three.”

“Yes.”

“They would have never had riders?” His forehead knitted together as he stepped closer to her and her children.

“Well I am the only Targaryen that remains,” she whispered.

“Only Targaryen’s can ride Dragons?” Jon supposed he knew the answer to that from his days spent studying at Winterfell. The septa had said only dragons have ever rode dragons but he could not quite place what made one a dragon.

“Or any of the old Dragon families,” she clarified. “The blood of my blood, the blood of their blood, the blood of old Valyria.”

Jon wanted to know more. His mind was full of battle strategy, nightmares, her, not history. The stories of her motherland were slipping from his mind. However, he did understand one thing. “They are all gone,” Jon murmured to himself.

“I am the only one left.” Daenerys agreed with hard eyes and a voice that did not waver.

“Are they harder to control when they don’t have a rider?” Jon asked as he looked over to Rhaegal who had not taken his eyes off the Northern King.

“Yes.” Daenerys eyes shifted from Jon to Drogon. “They listen to me because I was the first sight they ever saw but they are wild animals. They cannot be tamed.”

Jon watched as her throat moved when she swallowed her last word before she began speaking again. “Rhaegal is milder tempered. He does not normally act like this but he is upset. Him and Viserion were close whereas Drogon spends most of his time with me.”

“He’s your favorite,” Jon offered her a smile but it was one she would not return.

“I love all of my dragons,” she frowned.

“But-,”

“But, yes, I would probably be crippled if anything happens to him.” She moved closer to the big beast and kissed the side of his face and turned back to Jon. “He has saved me more times than I can remember.”

“Are you taking them to Kings Landing?” A decision was never stated at the meeting.

“Drogon will follow close behind but Rhaegal will stay to Dragonstone,” The Queen sighed. “Tyrion is correct and I no longer feel comfortable taking them places I cannot entirely guard both of them unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Daenerys shook her head before she continued, “I can somewhat calm Drogon, depending on his temperament that day. I do not want him to lay waste when we are to talk ceasefire.”

She made a face of disapproval while glancing back at her dragon.

“Don’t always do everything Tyrion says. He needs to learn to trust your decisions and intuition. You are The Queen.” As ruler, she should not be doing as her advisor bids at every turn. They were there to counsel, not manage her kingdom.

It was a statement that he struggled with. But she knew danger it seemed, what was wrong. And if there was any doubt, she was sensible enough to ask for and receive guidance.

Daenerys smiled to Jon and reached out to touch his hand but stopped herself. He caught the hesitation, the sting of uncertainty and restraint, the graceless movement.

Taking her hands within his, he nodded towards her. They did not always agree, but there was trust. She needed to see that.

“I listened to him the first time and lost my allies.”

“You listened to him a second time and gained,” _me_ , he wanted to say but reprimanded himself, “The North.”

“I did not listen to him a third time and one of my children is dead,” she spoke quietly.

“You didn’t listen to him and we have a wight, you saw for yourself the real enemy and you still have more allies.”

“Everything that can go wrong, goes wrong,” she shook her head and pulled her hands from his. She turned her back from him and looked out towards the shoreline.

It was an interesting night, he noted. The weather was not terrible yet but the winds were strong and the waves were crashing hard. The night sky was dark blue instead of the fuzzy grey colors it had been previous nights.

“He told me that the other day as well.”

“How was that talk?” Her voice finally faltered.

“It was a talk.” The sides of his mouth had pulled down a bit. “The little bastard is good with words.”

Daenerys laughed hard for a moment and Jon thought it to be a wonderful sound, leaving a small smile on his face.

“Was there anything in particular that stood out?” she questioned under her eyelashes as she turned towards him slightly.

“Aye.”

“What?” The question flew out of her mouth, a bit abrasively.

“Did he speak to you too?” Jon’s eyes tightened, the smile fading from his lips.

“He did. It is his duty,” she clipped, noticing his stiffening posture.

Moments passed between them while Jon worked through an adequate response. She knew all that was happening and yet, she had not come to him.

Shifting, she still said nothing.

“Is this it?” Jon’s light mood began to fade.

“Pardon?” Her voice was soft but still held a biting edge.

“Between us. Is this it?’ Jon himself, was not entirely sure what he was asking. Only that the last few days remained uneasy despite their night after Eastwatch.

“What?” she bit.

“You are avoiding me,” he stated calmly, looking down. They were tense, with each other. Personally. Despite everything they were going through. It was the last thing required. And exactly what he was afraid of. _What is the alternative though?_

They needed to appear strong, united. Not in this mutual plight.

“You were not avoiding me?” He caught her expression, looking back up. Her lip was curled.

“Not at first and then-, that is not the point-,” he defended. He had been. It was easier, but he realized that her presence did things to him, even as they argued. He desired for it, frustratingly.

Her coldness did nothing, and that is what he was receiving.

“No, it is. You just do not like when it is returned to you.”

“There are so many events taking place now and I’ve needed to speak to you, obligatory discussions-, but you are so unreachable, unresponsive and I want to be there for you-, it’s my fault-, I-.” Pain flashed on her face. He had never been good with words.

“Do not.”

She turned from him, glaring at the crashing waves. The sky was empty and dull while the winds whistled, filling the silence that fell upon them.

Jon took notice of her entirely. Her hair which was free of her most intricate braids, cascaded down to her waist in loose waves that blew in the wind. Along with her cape, that looked to hold little warmth. Even from the sides of her face, he could tell that her scowl was one of pain, her posture rigid. Defensive.

“The gods are cruel,” he decided.

“I do not know what to tell you.” She believed in no gods. Perhaps she was one herself, pushed from the sky, forced to live amongst men. Perhaps she had forgotten where she came from, perhaps she did something disagreeable and this was to be her punishment.

_She is the kind to follow no man’s rules except her own._

The silence killed what remained of their mood.

“You know Sansa told me not to do this,” he shook his head with a foul laugh.

“Do you always do what your sister tells you?” It wasn’t quite a sneer. She mocked him with a course expression.

“Obviously not or I would not be here,” he ground out. “And The North would not be thinking to elect a new monarch.”

“You wish you could take _everything_ back.” Her voice softened. Her face softened.

“No.”

 

+

 

Her hesitation was prevalent, and her heart heavy.

“Tyrion spoke to me about marriage.” The words were bitter on her tongue.

“Him too?” She swung her head back.

“Us being married,” she clarified.

“Him too?” Jon repeated turning his eyes away from her. “See Davos mentioned it when we first got here but-,” he trailed off.

They despised each other most days, argued at every turn but their nights. Their nights were different. And when they first met, they hadn’t any nights.

Daenerys wondered if her Hand and Master of Whispers had been talking to Jon’s advisor. Her suspicion was raising. “And what are your thoughts?”

Jon’s eyes searched her and she knew he could only see uneasiness. “I wondered about it.”

“I cannot have children, Jon. Surely you want those, need those.” Daenerys did not want to bring it up again but she wondered if she were the only one thinking that it might be a problem. Wars had started for less and his gods forbid, the northern men found out that their king brought home not only a foreign whore, but a barren foreign whore.

“Who told you that?” Jon whispered with a face of skepticism.

“The witch that murdered my husband.”

“Has anyone ever told that she may have not been a reliable source?” He spoke as if it were the most obvious of assumptions.

“A few times now.”

Daenerys eyes wandered to everyplace that was not Jon’s face. Sensing her embarrassment, Jon let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t even deserve to have your hand.”

She pulled her head down, backing away. “The prospect of being with me scares you?” He stepped closer, his eyes shining with contempt of what she could place as realization dawned on him.

Her breath hitched.

She could give no children. One of her few insecurities. He would have the opportunity to father a child, an heir, to the very minimum, a lord title, and that would be taken away. The resentment that could come with that holed up within her chest.

Another step closer.

Drogon was not that far behind her, she could feel the heat radiating off him. She could perhaps step back maybe thrice more. She could not move to her right because he was slightly in that direction and she could not move left or she would fall off the cliff.

Realizing where they were, what they were with, he froze and turned away.

“Aye. I don’t have time for love, nevertheless.” _Love. Marriage_. _Together?_ A fantasy.

Hurt welled in her stomach.

They were sad words. Their sad realities. As long as they reigned.

Daenerys vision started to blur. The cliffs started to spin as her eyes burned. As her throat began to tighten, her body felt numb. Dizzy and sick. _Shit._

Jon’s lips were moving and he had not reached to grab her so she knew she had not fainted. He did look to be touching closer but his face was becoming swirls of black and pale tones. She felt a grasp on the top of her shoulder and his voice grow louder. “Your Grace!”

“Daenerys!” Jon reached towards her in case she fell.

 _Compartmentalize_.

“Dany.”

 _Compartmentalize_.

“That name was last uttered to me as my husband poured hot silver and gold over my brother’s head for beating me and trying to steal from our Khalasar. Viserys begged me, he said ‘Dany please.’” Every word tore at her throat, her eyes stinging with tears she would not allow to fall.

“He was weak. He always said my name in such a tone that would send me to tears. I only wanted to make him happy, I loved him, I was promised him,” she said vehemently. “It was supposed to be us on the throne.” _But he was mad and corrupt,_ she thought. Just like her father.

“When you say that name, it sounds so lovely I cannot imagine you are referring to me.” So sweet yet full of passion. _Haunting_ , she decided. “It is like you are singing to a spirit or at the very least a girl that no longer exists. Because when you call me that name, it is full of affection and familiarity. It makes me feel like I am a normal person, a woman, not just a queen.”

“You aren’t just a queen. Not to me,” Jon spoke softly his eyes full of anger and pain.

“I cannot tell you what is happening. Only that I desired it but I am plagued every night by this terrible feeling. And it consumes me, like a dark shadow over my life.” She removed his palm that resided on her face.

“I never meant for this to happen.” _What exactly?_ She wanted to ask. _Which part?_

 _Surely all of it was never supposed to happen._ “I know, but it needed to.”

“I do not underst-,”

“We would have never known how strong the Night King to be had he not taken down my dragon. I needed to see, to understand. I-I, we,” she trailed off, pulling away from his sad eyes.

“I am sorry I brought it up.”

“If you are thinking about waiting for a better time, I fear that may never come.”

“We need-, we should stop.”

“We should but we won’t.” It was the truth. She would not lie to him. They had some odd pull.

“Your gods are cruel,” she added bitterly.

“Whatever happens, I won’t let you do it alone. Not if you don’t want. We promised each other and I will keep my word,” he reminded her.

She frowned. “You will not do it alone,” he repeated desperate for her to understand.

“Alone,” she laughed. “I am alone. When I look back at my entire life, I was alone.” And a Targaryen alone is a terrible thing.

She noticed confliction in his eyes. A strong emotion wracked through his entire face. He looked to the sky as if to hide it. And when he brought his head back down, she truly understood why he gazed up.

She could not fathom how this man could wear all his emotions on his face so clearly.

His eyes betrayed his longing and understanding, she was familiar with men who held that look. They also betrayed his guilt. Though she had promised him she was not angry and told him to cease his distress, his look lingered.

She would be fine. She had to be. She was not a deserter. She would not run. She was not weak or soft though her soul betrayed gentleness.

His hands were very much holding hers and her shoulder now. That one arm on her shoulder never left her from when she supposed he grabbed her to rouse her from her shock. She now felt it slide down her back to her waist, removing her from her mind.

It raised gooseflesh.

She wondered if he knew he was doing that because his eyes never betrayed foolish lust. They never betrayed anything but longing, comfort and affection.

She swallowed as she felt how tough his hands were. He had gripped her waist and padded his thumb against her palm but when a chill shot through her and made her body shudder, she guessed he understood how intimate he was being. And she realized how much she did not want him to stop.

She was used to the comfort touches of a man. None quite as passionate whilst being completely pure, at least she thinks. Hopes.

He looked taken a back.

Jon cleared his throat and the sadness that she felt in the prior minutes, she was no longer a slave to. “I apologize, Your Gra-” The title died on his lips as she moved closer to him.

They would allow each other this comfort.

 

=

 

Girls north did not wear dresses like hers unless they were going to sleep. Even then, he supposed they were more covered than her black silk that exposed the tops of her breasts and back, and shoulders, and arms and neck, completely outlining her body.

The cloak she had on was black and tied only on the neck, hanging down her back like a veil and blowing in the wind like leaves. The North would never see anything like this.

The question he’d asked himself in his head during dinner was if she was ever cold. Davos echoed the inquiry during dessert, _for her safety,_ he excused.

She ran warmer than normal, he realized before.

Of course, the Mother of Dragons would run warm blooded. She did not seem to feel the chill as others did.

He was familiar with cold. And he was also use to women cok’ing towards him with a look on their face. _That look._ Normally he could back up and protest but his feet stood frozen.

The hands that were currently folded at her belly in her perfect posture were now at his shoulders and waist. He was in a stunned hug that when he finally realized what she was doing, he returned it with a rough tug.

Daenerys had never felt so warm in an embrace. He was all fur and rough edges, passion and worry. Nothing she could piece together. Nothing she knew wholly. He held her for a while, she believed, and when she breathed in, he begun to separate. She supposed that is what he thought she wanted.

He was wrong, not seeing her frown at his withdrawal.

Before she could stop herself, she moved her palm up his armor to his neck and tip-toed to meet his lips once more. She felt him freeze which snapped her back to their current situation. Her cheeks flushed and before she could even feel the pattern of his lips, she went to pull away.

She did not make it fully down on the hinds of her feet before he heaved her entire body to his. His hands were fully on her waist and the backs of her neck.

She could write poems about the softness of his mouth and how warm his hands made her feel as they curved into her backside. She could write books on how easy it is to memorize the shape of someone’s lips when you like how they move against yours.

She cupped his cheeks in her hand in absolute desperation for more of his face against hers when he bit the bottoms of her lip. When their teeth started to clash, he felt his hold get tighter and firmer so she took reign and gently slid her tongue in his mouth. He returned massaging his against hers, and when he started rubbing his hands along her body, she foolishly let out a moan that probably would have made even the most experienced whores blush.

She felt him tense up so she broke the kiss.

He had not let go of her yet so she softly spoke against his neck, “I apologize.”

The air that escaped from the words she spoke sent a shiver through his spine and down to his groin. “No, you are quite alright,” he spoke in a hoarser voice than she was used to hearing from him.

Her laugh felt like a kiss to his neck and though he did not want to release her, she removed his hands from her arse and bowed her head.

“Thank you, Jon Snow,” she said with the brightest tinge of pink on her cheeks, pleased to forget for a moment all her hurt.

She looked like a very sweet woman, had he not known the things he knew, he would have thought her completely innocent and delicate. But she was the Mother of Dragons whom days prior, sat atop a fire breathing beast to save him. Sat atop him and ground herself into him until they were both sated.

There was also the dress. She looked like sin itself walking away from him.

She had not even bothered to let him bow before leaving and now that he heard the screech, he had entirely forgot about the dragons that she was feeding previously. She had not said farewells to them either.

He jumped a bit as the big one’s face touched his shoulder. He cautiously curved to him, his eyes hot and golden. He turned completely and reached toward it as it huffed. He could only just stand there until he could gather himself together enough to go back inside and be met with Davos’ suspicious glare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Just want to say thanks again for sticking with me through this. These two chapter are rough, as they are the first ones I wrote for this story so you can tell stylistically that they are pretty different from the first chapter which is definitely far superior. I hadn't quite got Jon and Dany's voices down like I do now. However, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> I would like to thank some commenters that have been pointing out some grammar errors and in a very polite way might I add! I appreciate it because I do not have someone to review my work and it is quite embarrassing when I go back and discover them. I even blush when you guys say it, but I appreciate it nonetheless!
> 
> I would also like to apologize for the lack of smut, once again. It is coming up soon. But plot stuffs and character growth or regression, depending on how you view it, are currently going on instead of relationship stuff which will come in about a chapter or two.  
> AND, apologies for the way the kiss was written- the switch between POV's. I wanted both their thoughts were in there. The next chapter, which is the final in part 1, whelp, there was no room to add an alternate part. Perhaps next time, I will do it as a one-shot thing and scrap this idea. Trial and error, guys, trial and error!
> 
> So yeah, here we are with Jon's mindset. He is hella moody. Darker. And a tiny tiny bit self-centered. I mean, dude almost died again. Gotta let him think about what he really wants and needs to do! We had a lot of Dany's last chapter so I wanted to switch it over. I try to write human characters with flaws because they are more relatable. We are not perfect and I don't think they should be either. And though other characters in the story may think highly of each other, they are still imperfect and make mistakes. It is very important to me to give them substance because sometimes with the tv show, it is not there and we are left to analyze on our own.
> 
> After this, the fic will be written almost by important scene by important scene instead of a stream line through their day. I find it flows better for me and I am able to capture the characters better and deliver more meaningful pieces instead of fillers.
> 
> Thanks again for the positive reviews. I get scared to read them because, you know, you are your own worse critic sometimes and people can be cruel but when I courage up, I always find myself happy to hear your thoughts and theories and get excited with some of you discussing and then can't wait to get the next chapter up to show you! Thank you, Thank you!!! 
> 
> Please leave a comment, like I said, your enthusiasm gives me life + sneak sneak, Sam is here next chapter so it's about to be a partyyyyyy lmfao  
> xoxo Angel <3


	4. The End Is Near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sam, what is it like to fancy someone you, couldn’t,” Jon paused, “shouldn’t have?”  
> “I cannot remember.” Sam looked up, contemplative. “I’ve got her now. Will you be telling me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all can find my tumblr which is i-am-small.tumblr.com. Still un-beta'ed! Bear with me, And Enjoy <3

 

**_One, two-, the end is coming for you._ **

_He tried running from the voices. Chime-like, lamenting and wistful, they were. He legs ached and his knees were about to cave in. Jon felt he was running for years._

_The air smelled of pine. He was surrounded by trees so tall he could barely see stars in the night sky. Or was it that they were so tall that they made the sky look black?_

_His chest burned._

_Jon’s legs carried him further._

_Another tree, another tree, more trees; willowy and slender._

**_Three, four-, he brings the great war_ ** _._

_Snow everywhere._

**_Five, six-, fewer politics._ **

_It was eerie and omniscient. His attempts at escape were futile. “Jon! Jon!” This was fourth time he heard his name being screamed. He spun around, each time only to be met more tree’s._

_“Jon!” Darkness swallowed him. “Jon!” The urge to scream that he could hear and how near he was had engulfed him. But the words died in his throat._

_Horrified, he was running in no obvious direction. It was just dark and silent. The ground thick with snow. No birds, no wolves, no deer. No sense of life anywhere. Just snow._

**_Seven, eight-, secrets devastate._ **

_Emptiness._

_Isolation._

_Disappointment._

**_Nine, ten-, a lie will rise again._ **

 

Jon awoke, sweating. He looked around his chambers. He was alone. No voices. No one was calling him. No one was there.

The curtains billowed in the winds, and the air was chilly. The chill that greeted him was unlike a northern chill. This chill snuck upon him like a crook at dusk. There was now a yearning within him for the incessant dragon that enjoyed keeping his room burning.

Groaning, Jon removed himself from his bed to put on his training gear. He needed to go home.

He closed his eyes trying, willing himself to escape the darkness that floated around him as he tip-toed about his room, careful not to wake Ser Davos. He wanted to not be there. He thought to get up and wander the halls as he does most nights, but he knew he would end up in front of her door. Comfort, it was something she seemed to deliver to him well. And without having any sort of inkling. At least not to his knowledge for she acted like he barely existed most days.

_It is for the better._

In the night time, they both told themselves, it could not happen and every time, something happened. It could be a look, a small touch, and that support seemed to drive him deeper into his melancholy.

A sinking feeling nested inside his stomach when he thought to stop. Stop being near her, stop speaking to her more than necessary-, walking away. Together was far more difficult than he had determined.

He was not fine.

Dawn was sure to come soon so he would drill until Sam’s ship arrived. He thought it to be a welcome distraction.

 

 

***

 

 

“Jon!” A familiar voice called from where he was practicing his lunges. His head snapped up in alert to the big man approaching the rocks. _Sam._

His lips tugged up as his friend pulled down the hood of his cloak and gave a well-worn but pleasant smile. A long sigh of relief was released from him as he heaved himself to his feet, walking over to his old mate.

In a large hug, Jon asked, “How long have you been here?”

Whirling around to the beach, he had not seen any ships dock. There weren’t any ships there actually.

“The other side.” Sam pointed behind him, noticing Jon’s confusion. “A few moments ago. We were unloading some things. They told me, big fellows, that I would find you out here somewhere.” Sam waved his hand to what Jon would distinguish is the common height of the Dothraki men and similarly to what one would do when feigning their indifference.

Jon grimaced imagining Sam walking around alone in unfamiliar territory. “Where’s Gilly and little Sam?” he asked suddenly, overwhelmed with unusual protectiveness.

“Some kind women whisked them away to our chambers,” Sam said thoughtfully.

“You just let some random people take away your woman and child,” Jon asked, disbelief gracing his features. _Has he not learned anything?_

“Random? The Queen’s people.” Sam’s eyes were full of skepticism. Jon hadn’t moved. He knew that The Queen’s servants most likely took them away and they would not be harmed but it was hardly the point. _How would Sam know?_

And he asked as much. “Why would you trust them?”

His paranoia and dread had increased ten-fold since Eastwatch. He became skittish, more aloof than necessary, less tolerant. And further time seem to past, the more uneasiness seemed to settle and not sway like it normally had.

They were valid questions, Jon still thought.

His signature could have been forged, it could have been a trap. Numerous what-ifs passed through his head. In light of recent events, nothing seemed real or safe. When sending ravens to Sansa, she must have thought him mad, for he had taken to signing his notes with old jibes Arya used to throw at everyone when she became irritable with customary society.

“Aren’t her people the only people here? Would you really allow us to come to an unsafe place, Jon?” Sam’s frown now mimicked his own.

“No but-.” Jon relaxed with Sam’s quirk of an eyebrow. The more he thought about it, the more foolish he sounded. Who would know how much Sam meant to him? What would they want with him? Jon gritted his teeth at his error. “Stop being so bloody trusting,” he shoved his friend, moving to walk.

“Lord Tyrion was there,” Sam said finally, rolling his eyes. Jon halted a bit, doing a double take. It was early, the drunk would not normally be awake.

“The Queen sent for us to be situated.” Sam’s face was thoughtful as he watched Jon shuffled a bit faster. It was considerate of her. He thought of asking her where they were going to stay but him and her were leaving soon, Sam and Gilly could stay in his chambers. He did not bother.

Jon’s mind was elsewhere, now more than ever before. It seemed to battle between the night before leaving to Eastwatch and how close The Others were. He wanted the ceasefire for her. Before, he wanted it so she would aid and assist The North but now, he truly wanted for her hard work not to go to waste. Those feelings, he strained to shove them deeply into his system.

The war, however, was plaguing him, every night, every day, every hour, soon as he felt a chill, his entire body would flash back beyond the wall and see Uncle Benjen. Thoros, a lighter spirit, dead. That dragon falling, so easily. The plan seemed so irresponsible now. It made him sick.

“Oh,” Jon said absentmindedly to Sam, attempting to come out of his head.

“I am not stupid,” Sam said carefully, following Jon back towards an odd entrance of the castle, almost bumping into him as he stopped.

“No, you aren’t. I apologize, Sam.” Jon turned around to take in his friend’s face. He looked older too.

“You look quite stressed,” Sam commented, worriedly.

Jon swallowed and titled his head as he opened a massive door, leading to the tower they vacated. “Aye. Follow me.”

Sam observed the space as they entered. The Unsullied posted at both ends of the main corridor and the few northern guards scattering the area. Everything was dimly lit as usual, but the fire created a warm glow that Sam seemed to enjoy.

“This is nice, Jon,” his friend said thoughtfully before he opened the large double doors to his rooms.

“Yes,” he said casually. He knew. He hardly deserved a space as grand as this.

“How long have you been here, again?” Sam walked around chamber in awe. He probably noticed the empty wardrobe, but clothes scattered around his chest and very lived in bed and washroom.

“Months,” he grimaced as his mate began shrugging off his cloak, laying it casually up top a side table.

“I ravened Winterfell, and Sansa… She said if it were urgent to send a message here, discreetly,” Sam all but whispered the last word. Jon found the sides of his lips tugging upwards a bit. “How has it been here? She does not seem to be holding you hostage.”

Sam eyes traveled the vast space as he sat down in the same seat Tyrion had been occupying every time he came to bugger him with emergency plans and “chats.”

“Not anymore.”

Sam’s eyes widened, mouth opening from a contemplative shock. “She was?” he cleared his throat.

“No, not quite. It’s just been- difficult,” Jon paused, making a face of disdain. “She didn’t believe me at first.”

“But she does now?” Jon’s contorted at the prospect of explaining Eastwatch to him.

“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s too late. Winter is here, Sam.” Jon’s face embodied his tone of gravity. “The Snow is beginning to fall heavily at Winterfell and-,” Jon shook his head.

“And?”

Jon contemplated telling Sam about his dreams. It was not like he had anything to lose. He just dreaded the idea of Sam not believing him.

He pulled a cushion in front of Sam, next to the small table. He rubbed his head and took a breath. “My brother and I, we have been having these dreams.” Jon squinted his eyes attempting to deduce his mate’s expression. Sam gave nothing but curiosity away.

Jon leaned over slightly, shoving some things about on the table until he found the piece of parchment he was looking for. Holding it up while diverting his eyes and rubbing his forehead lines, he asked, “How do you kill a Wight dragon?”

His voice was low and grave, only holding a hint of exasperation. Bran had sent him a raven that contained the oddest of messages along with his sister’s; listed animals and great creatures no man had seen in hundreds of years, some people thought to be myth. It had not been met with much consideration until recently.

He looked to Sam, whose face held a disbelieving look that gradually faded as he realized that Jon was not kidding around. “Jon-,

Sam struggled with articulating a sentence which made Jon deflate even more. The last times he had been with Sam, Sam was good with words, books, feelings, decisions. Everything he was not and he could not seem to get a decent sentence out. “How?

“Hers, it fell a bit past Eastwatch.” Sam’s eyes furrowed. Jon then took the time to explain the mission and how everything went horribly wrong. And how she came. And them how he almost died and Benjen. He also tried telling his friend about his siblings, how different the two youngest were, though he thought Sansa to be dramatic and unrelentingly strict, his and Bran’s dreams, they were similar. At this point, Jon could not really dismiss fable or folklore as nonsense. What he was saying was nonsense.

It could not possibly be a coincidence that they were both dreaming of an army that contained anything, everything dead beyond the wall.

“Do not say anything though. I don’t know if such a thing could be entirely true. There is no word from The Wall,” Jon rushed out. “All I know is that Winter is Here. I want to be prepared.”

Sam nodded before explaining the incompetence of the Citadel. Jon winced at the number of scrolls and books Sam said he “borrowed,” and grimaced at the prospect of him returning them back to the institution. “We can handle this, Jon.”

Sam’s voice was strong. Then again, Jon supposed he had to be. The man had a child and partner to take care of. The world ending was not something Sam undoubtedly wanted to consider.

“He took it down so easily, Sam. He could take another and resurrect it-,”

“Jon,” Sam hushed him. “She is coming with us?”

“Aye,” Jon said softly.

“Even if we do not get the ceasefire.”

“Aye.” Jon didn’t even bother to look up at the surprise on Sam’s face. His soft tone of disbelief said it all.

“We will figure it out. No one is alone in this.” Jon felt Sam’s hands come down on his shoulder reassuringly. A few days ago, he would have shaken it off and shouted, _“how?”_ But he could not dismiss any form of comfort Sam seemed to offer. He was here trying to help a situation, Jon himself felt he made worse. “There isn’t a thing to do right now, just allow me some time to search the castle library-,”

Jon swallowed, several images flashed through his mind. Jon shivered and stood up distressingly fast, turning his back to Sam immediately, willing them to disappear from his head. _Seven hells._

“What?” Sam stood in alarm.

“It’s just-. Nothing.” His words tumbled out of his mouth abruptly. Jon undid the tie on his hair and raked his hands through it a few times before putting it back up. _No time. No time. Not right now._

It was a chant he took to repeating to himself whenever he thought about her. He has never craved a woman’s touch as he did hers. Not all the other stuff, just to hold her hand most times. Her sense security. He sounded like a sodding sap but there was stillness and serenity about her. He now understood what Tyrion was saying. She saved people, put them at ease. She seemed to come out of the worst situations, perhaps not unscathed, but strong. At least, more alive than he was.

“What is she like? The Queen, I mean.” _Fuck._

Jon thought to not respond and wave him off, but Sam already tossed him a few looks. If anyone was going to figure it out, well, everyone on his side would find out something was the matter. They had the upper hand, having known his for years. He could get away with a bit privacy and mystery in The Queen’s territory, having disguised it as brooding and despondence. But he was too easy to read by his friends and family. Sansa would sniff it off him, he was sure.

He contemplated a response. “Hard headed. Ambitious. Good on the inside but she has-, impulses.” It was a toss up between her anger and incorrigibility for the crown for fiercest.

“More reckless than yours,” Sam joked, which turned out to be a problem. He found the need to defend her and before he could close his mouth, a sentence slipped out.

“I don’t think she is as hasty as people tend to think she is, as I thought she was.”

Sam looked at him expectantly. _The gods are fucking cruel._

“I think she sits down and thinks about everything to the point of doubt and cynicism. She still remains promising, though. Her wisdom is born of her shrewd and adaptability. So, when something goes wrong, she-,” Jon couldn’t quite place what happened on the ship, what happened on the cliffs. He only remembered something like it when he came back to life and he could not explain. He couldn’t think, reason. Everything was just overwhelming.

“It is as if something in her snaps or a little part of her breaks-,” Sam supplied warily.

“She’s human, Sam. A liberator. Astute, and stubborn but never hateful nor thoughtless,” Jon retorted a bit too fast.

“You speak very highly. You spent a lot of time with her?” Sam inquired.

“I’ve been here for months,” he waved him off, feigning insignificance. “You should hear Ser Davos.”

Jon was not sure if his digression was successful as there was a knock at the door. Gilly’s head popped in. Jon motioned for her to come, to which she curtsied. Sam looked so proud but Jon dismissed it and told her not to do that when they were all alone.

She put little Sam down and Jon kneeled urging the boy to come towards him. He got so big, what was he? Four now? “A lady said there would be breakfast in the tower’s solar,” Gilly said timidly. Jon doubted she knew what a solar was so he released a chuckle and Little Sam giggled as well.

Sam stood up rather quickly, gathering his cloak and nodded towards the door. “Jon.”

“Go on, I’ll be there in a moment.”  He doubted she would come of her own accord, deducing everything to formality. He told himself he was doing it to let her know who was residing on her island, but the pit in his stomach mocked him.

 

 

***

 

 

She told two of the Dothraki girls, become handmaidens, to assist her since Missandei was indisposed. Since returning to Dragonstone, Missandei had been on the job of indulging The King’s men, getting to know them. She needed to make sure them and her soldiers would become amicable. It was odd, giving her friend a new task that had not required tending to her.

So, she currently had the burden of hand choosing some females to help her. Missandei recommended Yeshesi, a graceful yet blunt Dothraki girl, to leave in charge of her chamber. Daenerys told her to continue folding her garments after the other, Jhemmefi, a petite thing, seemed to be so enthralled with the King in the North, she momentarily lost her composure.

When the knock sounded on her door earlier, the enthusiastic girl opened it fast and then stricken, stuttered out formalities in the varying languages Missandei was teaching her. The poor man was so confused. She found the blunder quite funny and giggled as she put on a light robe, listening to her handmaiden’s formalities. The graceful girl politely asked what he was here for in her accented common tongue before Daenerys took over and excused them off to the wardrobe.

 _They were acceptable, neither boring nor rude,_ she thought.

He had been polite, though faltering a bit as he noticed she was still in her sleep clothes. He walked into her chambers, uninvited, seeming to take in what it looked like whilst explaining that his friend had arrived and that it would be lovely if she were to join them.

Which is how she end up marching towards the guest wing. She should have been packing herself, but he had requested her attendance. She could hardly say no. At least that is what she told herself as she continued her pace towards the guest tower.

She remembered commanding Tyrion to keep him a decent distance away but still close enough. This walk seemed entirely too far. Once she saw the Northern guards, she smiled and they stepped aside courteously.

The room was not as grand as the formal dining area they usually occupied, but it was lined with light cloths that gently blew with the breeze of the morning air. It was noisy as she walked in. She noticed Lord Tyrion laughing right away. Her eyes narrowed. _What was he doing here?_ He had not informed her he would be here.

“Oh wow,” a female with brown eyes and hair sputtered glancing towards the stone entrance where she stood. The baby seemed to be the only one to make noise as the room had become hushed. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out, embarrassed as the laughter died.

She swallowed and fixed her hands in front of her as Jon finally looked up, glancing at her, standing and then frowning at the man beside him who seemed to be grinning with shock.

“Your Grace, I thought you would be packing,” It was her Hand who spoke, standing as everyone else followed Jon’s heed.

“I was but The King invited me to breakfast. I left a Dothrki girl in charge,” she tossed at Tyrion who moved to pull out a chair beside him, signaling for her to sit next to him. She was extraordinarily suspicious of this kindness.

“Oh, how is she?” Missandei asked pouring some fresh squeezed juice into everyone’s cups before settling back into her seat.

“Quite satisfactory, though Jhemmefi thinks The King in the North is rather comely,” Daenerys threw at Jon who sat back down, snorting.

The tightness in her throat eased up with his light mood. “She began speaking to him in an odd but amusing assortment of High and Bastard Valyrian with some Dothraki. I suppose she is not very decent at combatting her nerves yet.”

“My apologies,” Missandei’s voice rang with a mild grimace, but tossed Jon a look.

Daenerys smiled as he palmed his forehead at Missandei’s suggestive glance. “She is fine,” The Queen dismissed with a wave of her hand turning to Jon’s guests.

“Hello,” she looked towards the three people on Jon’s side of the table, waiting for Jon to introduce them.

Jon looked up, catching on to the etiquette. He stood and she walked over to where they were all standing once again. “Oh, ah- This is Samwell Tarly.”

Her body went frigid. _Tarly. Samwell Tarly. Sam. Tarly._ The name ran through her head repeatedly.

 _Breathe_. Her body seemed to respond for her, her hand lifting to shake his, as he bowed. “Gilly- Gilly,” Jon paused, thinking. In that quick moment, she stole a glance towards Tyrion who shifted under the weight of her gaze. “You didn’t happen to get married too while you were off breaking every oath in Westeros.”

“No, not yet,” the man laughed. _‘He spoke of a Sam and Gilly.’_ This was them.

“So, uh, his woman, and Little Sam,” she shook a stunned Gilly’s hand as well, who dropped into a well-mannered curtsy despite the child on her. Looking to the baby, she reached her hand out to shake his as well. He did not look to be much younger than what her son might have been.

Her heart clenched.

_Compartmentalize._

The baby dove straight for her single braid. “Oh hello,” she crooned.

“Sam!” Gilly went to pull the child’s hand away. Daenerys shook her head and stopped her pulling the full length of her plait forward.

“He is so precious, it is acceptable,” Daenerys smiled, willing her eyes not to water as the boy raised his arms to her.

She was so enthralled at his blue eyes one second and the next Gilly was handing him to her.

“This is Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon said with a peculiar tone to his voice but she could not bother to look up to decipher with the child in her arms. He had the prettiest blue eyes she had ever seen.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Gilly said to her. She was a blunt but mousy thing, with a wistful voice. Daenerys had heard it so many times, she thought it lost value to her but somehow when this woman said it to her, she could not help but smile up to her in thanks.

“Gilly!” Jon and Sam hushed.

“What? She is,” she shot back.

“Jon did not tell us you were so beautiful or that you would be coming to breakfast,” Sam admitted, him and Jon finally sitting down as she sat next to Gilly, the child still twirling her hair. _He probably has never seen hair so white._

“It was a last-minute thing,” Jon confessed.

“Oi, that is where you went before?” Sam asked spooning food onto his and Gilly’s plates as the woman continued fixing something for her son. _Her and Sam Tarly’s son._ The goodness faded and Daenerys filled with shame.

_Compartmentalize._

“Aye.” Jon was not a man of many words even with his friends, it seemed

“We would have looked better,” Sam motioned towards his clothes, though clean, did look worn. Same with Gilly’s and Little Sam’s.

“It is quite alright, you both look well.” It was not a lie either. They looked happy. All the riches in the world could not buy the look on Sam’s face when Gilly’s eyes widened in delight when she took a bite of one of the sweet buns.

“There are stories all over Westeros about you, but Jon had not even said-,” Sam shook his head at Jon and laughed when Tyrion sucked his teeth in disapproval.

“You did not say how lovely The Queen is, shame on you, King Snow.” Daenerys wanted to glower at her Hand but Jon was already doing it for her. It was improper for him to have said it, they all gathered. But had he thought it, they know Jon most likely would have spoken it, had they nothing to keep discreet.

“He didn’t!”

“At all,” Gilly agreed, her face serious.

“All of them, the stories, whispers even. They all stated your loveliness but you would never understand until you see for yourself, a true Targaryen. Never thought I would see one.”

“Thank you,” she smiled at Sam. He was a thoughtful man who had an air of kindness about him. He returned the smile at her, kindly, before talking a roll. She offered the child back to Gilly as he started reaching for the food in his mother’s hand.

She had been around some children but most of them were older, curious boys eager to see her dragons or girls that wanted a closer look at her hair so they could tell their mums to mimic it. None quite at this age.

“What is it you are doing here?” she questioned her Lord Hand as she walked past him to sit in the seat he patted.

“Well, I haven’t seen Lord Tyrion in a long time,” Sam offered.

“Long, long, long, time,” Tyrion agreed drumming his fingers against the table as his other hand held a blackened piece of meat.

She hoped her irritation was not showing. “You knew each other?”

“Yes, a very LONG time ago.” Tyrion gave her a hard look. “Forgot all about him, no offence Sam.” He waved his hand towards the large man who laughed it off. “He invited me to breakfast to discuss how the hell he ended up leaving the Citadel.”

“Pardon, but you really knew each other?” It was Missandei who echoed her disbelief.

“Yes. He was a part of the Night’s Watch.” The Lord threw his hands up dramatically.

Daenerys looked at Sam. He didn’t seem especially fit or like a fighter. 

“-With Jon,” Sam confessed, bashfully.

“Yes, you see,” Tyrion directed towards her and Missandei. “I am particularly interested in how the Bastard of Winterfell went from being a steward, to Lord Commander, to King in the North-,”

Jon let out an exasperated sigh, not bothering to look up from his plate. All her Lord Hand had been muttering about was how the events passed. She was sure if he offered the questions to Lord Varys he would have known but he looked to make it his mission to her it from Jon Snow himself. _If Jon had not been telling him this story, what were they discussing?_

“The free folk pretty much look to him as their King too,” Sam added.

“Wildlings don’t have Kings.” Jon looked up to her eyes on him. He frowned at the conversation. She gave him a tight-lipped smile of understanding.

“They had Mance,” Sam retorted making Jon grit his teeth.

“They call him King Crow,” Gilly added not bothering to look up from her son.

“King in the North and Leader of the Free Folk. And his best mate, who, excuse me Sam, again,” Tyrion waved, “-Was a less than par fighter, to having a woman,” Tyrion pointed at Gilly fondly, “Leaving the Night’s Watch, to joining the Citadel and then leaving the Citadel.” Tyrion chuckled. “You’ll have to forgive me, Your Grace. I must hear a story like this.”

Daenerys wanted to sneer at him for not immediately alerting her. But this was entirely him. She also gathered that him not calling her down to hear this “story” was his own way of shielding her from his potential onslaught of “I told you so” faces he was currently repressing due to his curiosity.

“You make it sound so terrible,” Sam blushed, looking down at the plate that was being passed from Gilly to Jon.

“It is Sam. You break nearly every oath you take, willingly,” Jon remarked offering her a plate of a bread that had been on Gilly’s end. She absentmindedly took it and one of the small loaves before passing it to Tyrion.

“Well, you needed my help,” Sam argued. “And the Citadel, they-”

“Do not believe?” Missandei offered, also taking the dish of bread from Lord Tyrion.

“No, the problem is that I think they do, but-, look at it like this; there was an exiled princess who seemed to find her way back to the shores she was banished from, with an army larger than anyone would have thought and dragons. A crowned queen, who has considerable manipulative skills, the tact of a thousand men. A king that is technically a bastard, that somehow got the free folk and the northern men to coexist somewhat, leading a great war,” Sam stopped to take a breath, looking up. “They believe, they just do not think it will come to them.”

Her Lord Hand’s face of concern made her feel even more discomfort than she already felt at Sam’s words. She looked to Jon who was unfazed, still eating. He probably heard all of this already. “The odds of any of the things to be what they are today were so slim. They believe it all, I know they do- they just do not care. They seem to think everything will be fine seeing as the people the odds are always against, seem to prevail.”

Missandei was horrified, “What twisted logic.”

Sam agreed. “That is why I left,” he shrugged. “It is true, I am not that good with a sword but I am good with my mind.”

“We weren’t going to let Jon fight alone,” Gilly’s voice was quiet but stern. _Together._

“You will fight?” Tyrion asked the girl.

“I’ll do anything I can to protect the people I care for,” the girl replied strongly but her posture was timid.

“Are all wildling women like?” Tyrion’s brows furrowed but there was a grin on his face.

“No,” Gilly and Jon both said. Tyrion let out a snigger.

“Lucky man, how did you get her Tarly?” Daenerys flinched involuntarily, instantly reminded of who she was feasting with.

“He saved my life. Him and Jon,” Gilly professed.

“You seem to have a knack of getting yourself in the most peculiar situations, Your Grace,” Missandei observed.

“I really don’t know how or why the things that happen to me, happen,” Jon rubbed at his face as she and Missandei released a light chuckle.

“I’m thankful for it anyways,” Gilly reminded him to which he nodded acceptingly.

“How did they save your life?” Tyrion enquired, taking a sip of something she hoped to still be the juice Missandei poured for him earlier.

“Well Jon and Sam rescued me from-,” Gilly looked towards Sam and Jon before continuing. “An unpleasant man and Sam saved me from one of The Others.”

 _The Others._ The wight’s? Daenerys had so many enquiries. Like, why had Gilly hesitated so before continuing her story. Why did she call those monsters _Others_? She shifted her head around the table in mild confusion that only Jon seemed to pick up on as he was the only one with eyes to her. 

“You fought one?” Lord Tyrion leaned forward, fascinated.

“The Others, the walkers. They are stronger than the wight’s, more conscious but there are fewer of them,” Jon said pushing his plate away from him. His expression was unreadable. He was neither angry nor sad. Just discomforted.

 _The Others. Stronger._ The ones that stood next to the Night King, she supposed with a swallow. “I stabbed him in the back while he tried to go after Gilly and the baby.”

“He was very brave,” Gilly acknowledged while lifting a glass to her mouth.

“How would I look if I ran while that thing was going for you,” Sam scoffed with light humor dancing in his eyes.

“Alive,” Tyrion stated.

“He is alive currently. I agree with Gilly, I think he is very valiant,” Missandei nodded with a softness.

 _He is. Kind. Jon’s friend._ It was quiet at the table now. She glanced up to Jon staring at her, perplexed.

She swallowed. Changing the subject, “How is the south treating you, Gilly?”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind it too much, it smells though.” Daenerys saw Jon smile out of the corner of her eyes.

“You do not miss home?” Missandei asked.

“I never really had a home or a place of warmth. And now, home, is more of a person than a place to me, and he’s normally always near,” Gilly said kindly.

Daenerys let out a hushed breath. “That is all anyone ever really wishes for, is it not?” Tyrion says pensively. A dull throb started in her chest. _If I look back I am lost._ And Alone. And with no home. She hoped for Dragonstone to give her this feeling she long desired and it sorely eluded her. There was nothing for her where she presently resided besides the safety the fortress brought her people.

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met a lot of people,” the woman leaned back slightly as the child laid his head on her shoulder.

Her eyes darted away from them, blinking a few times before staring at her plate with food hardly touched. She required relief from the subject. “How did you enjoy your time at the Citadel?”

“Well, Sam didn’t like it, I didn’t love it but I learned a lot. He is still teaching me to read so I had plenty of practice.”

Daenerys steeled her shock. _Of course_ , Tyrion mentioned her being a wildling. Not many wildlings would know how to read or at least read the changing text of the Westerosi aristocracy. Education is noble luxury. They lived beyond the wall, separated.

“In the world’s biggest library,” Tyrion nodded his head, the sides of his mouth turning upwards, approvingly. Gilly and Sam nodded back.

“All I grew up with were books,” Daenerys admitted. They were not new or extravagant and she did not have a lot, but the few she had, she cherished.

“Me also,” Sam chimed in.

“Not many, but I loved to reread them just to feel the words,” she mumbled but Sam looked to agree as well.

“I didn’t have any books. Where I came from, it was better to be stupid than to be smart,” Gilly stated.

Tyrion gave Daenerys a pointed look. “I believe you will find that anywhere in the world that applies. You are a threat if you are well read,” Tyrion spoke sadly but continued to inquire about anything she read.

“There was one story about a Prince Rhaggar,” Gilly started but Sam put his hand on her arm.

Jon leaned forward questioningly. “Rhaegar?” Daenerys head snapped up excitedly. The last time anyone really spoke of her family positively, it was Ser Barristan.

Gilly looked to Sam who looked hesitant and then to Jon who looked to Sam and then at herself. He nodded once.

The woman bit her lip, “It’s just that it said that he put his lawful wife aside and married another.”

“Pardon?” Tyrion halted. Her stomach dropped.

“Annulled. I think it was,” Gilly recalled, worried.

“When?” Tyrion looked at her encouragingly but she shrugged. The Hand looked to his queen. Her face was blank.

“Sometime before the battle of the trident, I presume,” Sam said, glancing at The Queen.

 _Elia Martell was raped, her children murdered, for being Rhaegar’s wife_. Daenerys had not realized she spoke until Sam tried to respond.

“But-,“ he started, his face sad.

_Compartmentalize._

“I think that’s enough stories,” Jon cut in.

“Did you bring the book?” she asked, needing to know more despite her disappointment.

“No,” Sam replied woefully, then paused. “If I had known how curious the contents of that book were, I would have taken that one too.”

He looked so earnest, Daenerys had to laugh. It was a miserable sound compared to her more radiant chortle but it was the best her body could give. Tyrion smirked when Missandei started to giggle as well.

Jon only shook his head.

“It’s all a bit fuzzy to be honest,” Gilly pondered.

“You know Gilly, when Sam is busy doing all his research, I can help you, too. If you would like?” Missandei offered.

Daenerys nodded on, though she felt empty. Gilly cheeks pinked but she eventually nodded as well.

The conversation went on to more trivial things and while Daenerys tried to throw herself back in, she mostly remained quiet. Though, she often stole fond glances at the little boy who had ate so much, he fell asleep in his mother’s arms.

She would never admit it, but, for the remainder of the meal she just second guessed herself further.

Gilly was a timid but strong girl, narrowing her eyes at something she didn’t like, huffing when Jon was too gruff. Still reserved and rather meek, but resilient. Sam was not an arrogant man. And he was not as stubborn and mule-like as his father. He was, truthfully, respectable. She could see how him and Jon became friends. Where Jon was quiet and strong, Sam was eloquent and intellectual, complimenting each other glaring differences.

How does one tell someone that they killed two of their family member’s?

The Queen excused herself. She longed to escape her thoughts for a few moments but she needed to get ready for their trip and feed her dragons.

She hoped they were in better spirits than she.

 

 

***

 

 

He could have fought Sam. It was supposed to be a nice morning. As stress-free as possible. The last thing he needed was the image of dejection on her face in his mind. Because of him. _Again_. And he could do nothing about it. _Again_

Logically, he saw Sam and Gilly did not intend to reveal further contents of her family’s misdeeds. Tyrion was merely asking about, as he did, and everything simply seemed to plummet.

One moment, he was minding his own, eating, the next, the tension had risen so high, he looked up only to see grief slide across her features.

And then the baby. _Little Sam_. He forgot about the baby.

She could not have kids.

And she looked so happy to hold Little Sam.

After he left for Eastwatch, that was all Jon thought about. In the moment, he did not consider. He wondered as a child how one could be so careless, and there he was, being irresponsible. Thoughts of her being with child scattered his mind. What if he got her pregnant? He did not risk sending the raven. When he got back, he would bring it up, he had vowed.

Then she told him.

The feeling of guilt, sadness, and disappointment shot through him all at once. He could not fathom how that felt. When he was younger, his father would always explain how special women were, _they could carry life inside of them. Growing life in their bellies._ And Sansa had always talked about having lots of babies for her future husband while him and Arya pretended to be sick.

Females were always taught how important this was. Her voice cracked every time she brought it up. He never did. He never wanted to see that look on her face. It was almost like he wanted her to have his child. And it was an image that danced through his mind far too many times. He fought to get it out of his head. A part of him didn’t, could not believe her.

But her face as she held the toddler sent chills through his body-,

_“Now she has to tell Jon Snow and his best mate that she may have burned his father and brother alive. He is technically Lord Tarly now.”_

Jon froze. He knew it to be wrong to listen in on a person’s private conversation but he’d heard his name. Curiosity was a terrible thing, he deemed halfway through the sentence.

_“It was war.”_

_“It was a battle. They survived. She gave them-,”_

Tyrion.

_“A choice.”_

Missandei.

_“Bend the knee or die. That is not fair and you know it.”_

_“She will tell them. People make mistakes. She will figure it out, she always does.”_

_“She cannot make mistakes like that. And I do not think she sees it as one.”_

_“They are so kind. I know that but she will be guilt ridden.”_

_“And deserves it. If she would have waited as I advised her to, this would not have happened.”_

_“That is why she was like that- you were correct about-,”_

_“That and that is Jon Snow’s best friend. Also, her brother, gods-,”_

_“She is disappointed in him now. She looked up to him.”_

_“Rhaegar was said to never have been cruel.”_

_“What happened to Elia Martell. It could have happened to her. If her child had not died-,”_

Jon strode away. He could not think of any of this.

 

 

***

 

 

“You really did not say she was that gorgeous.”

The day was already tiresome and noon had not long begun. After breakfast, he told himself he would not find her and he did not. He went to find Ser Davos who was with some Dothraki readying the ships all morning and helped him pack away their trunks.

There was one remaining chest he was to get and that was when he overhead the news about Sam’s father and The Queen. He contemplated confronting her but he was too angry. He steeled down coming to the realization; what did he expect? They had this conversation long ago. He knew this happened. She was this way. Is this way.

He considered telling Sam. Releasing him to make his way to Winterfell, _for his safety,_ he told himself.

Since returning the baggage to Davos, he decided to return to a cliff for a last view. Jon settled on addressing her first. It was foolish to condemn her for war, to think after all that has happened, her focus would shift back to the battle for the kingdoms.

“I wasn’t aware you wanted to know,” Jon looked back to see his friend breathing hard.

“But why would you not say?” Sam asked, clutching his chest.

“Why would I care?” Jon raised a brow at him. He hardly wanted to talk about this, especially now. Though not enough, he still held a bit of contempt for her at the moment

“Seriously, Jon,” Sam deadpanned.

“Aye, she’s stunning,” he admitted, begrudgingly.

“I think she is great, intimidating but very kind,” Sam nodded his head. Jon turned back around, his face twisting up, wondering how he would feel after he found out what she did. Though Jon did not think that Sam would reserve many hard feelings, it would still make him think different.

Jon felt guilty.

Finally, Sam made it all the way up, and conveniently, she stepped out on the beach with Missandei.

Sam looked towards him, he could feel his eyes on him. Jon just watched as the kids on the shore threw sand at each other. Missandei seemed to be scolding them. A dragon screeched.

Jon’s eyes widened but they all looked to be fine, though Missandei was attempting to shoo the kids away. It was not successful until Daenerys got up and started pushing them along playfully.

Drogon flew overhead. Sam cursed, ducking.

He knew the dragon was not low enough and laughed at Sam. It happened to him too.

“I can’t believe they really exist,” Sam gasped watching the creature land on the shore, shaking a bit as if he was wet. He might have been, actually, by the way she shielded herself.

She walked closer to the animal.

“She rides them, I heard.” Probably from his northern soldiers, they hadn’t stopped talking about it since Eastwastch. “What does she look like when she rides?”

Jon’s jaw clenched as the images of her on top of him flashed through his mind. _Stop._

He closed his eyes. It was quiet and Jon could feel Sam’s stare again. “Like a god,” was all he said.

“You fancy her.” _Seven hells._

“What? Is that a question, Sam?”

“Sure,” he smiled.

“Why?”

“Just asking,” it was an innocent voice but Jon knew better.

“Why?”

“Here’s a tip,” Sam started. “If you do not want anyone to know, stop looking at her. You are always looking at her. And when she is talking to you, you’re not always frowning. And you always frown, at everyone. All the time.”

Jon exhaled and looked at Sam, not bothering to argue. “Do I frown at you?”

“You are frowning at me right now.”

Jon laughed. It was a good laugh. Sam’s face held a scowl or a grimace, some odd combination of annoyance and dissatisfaction. He eventually joined in but flinched when Rhaegal screeched from overhead. Jon laughed harder.

It was nice to know that Sam knew and didn’t hate him yet. The back of his mind taunted him, though; _Wait till he finds out the type of person she can be._

“Sam, what is it like to fancy someone you, couldn’t,” Jon paused, “shouldn’t have?”

“I cannot remember.” Sam looked up, contemplative. “I’ve got her now. Will you be telling me?” he raised his eyebrows.

Drogon took back off. It was time to go, he turned to leave. Sam nodded to him, “I bid you luck.”

“Aye, stay safe.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

It was sunset. They had been off to a rough sail according to Davos. They’d be sailing all night.

A half a day trip turned into a whole night. Tyrion was deeply unhappy. They wanted the morning to go over strategy but instead they would be docking. Jon was unconcerned, most of them knew what could happen and every precaution they needed to take by now. Though that did not stop the little lord from summoning him to his chambers.

Another contingency plan. It was oddly comforting to know that he was not the only one with the feeling of looming disaster.

“Your Grace.” He found her above the deck, reading. Everyone else had gone down to get rest but she stayed up, wrapped in a fur.

He swallowed his disdain.

“Hello,” she acknowledged with a nod of her head. _Go back to your cabin and leave it be._

“How are you taking to the sea?”

She made a face. “The sea is taking us too long to get there.”

“It is the winds, Your Grace. That’s what Davos said.”

“Would you like to sit?” she shifted the throw over. _Leave_. “How are you taking to the sea?” she asked looking back to her book. He sat by her feet.

He felt the tops of her slippers tuck under his thigh.

He swallowed. “There isn’t much to do on a ship. I prefer land.” He preferred The North. He preferred the snow. He preferred home.

“I prefer the sky,” she hummed. Jon glanced up at the melancholy in her voice. He tried to imagine being up there, riding a creature that could kill him.

“You should have taken them,” he said. It was selfish. He would not have been talking to her right now.

“They are sad and it makes me sad.” Her eyes were far away when she looked up from the book.

“What are you reading?”

“A book.” 

Jon made a face of annoyance. “I can see that.”

“It is about Aegon’s Conquest,” she supplied. They all knew the story. Anyone in the world besides, possibly the free folk, knew the story.

“I prefer other Targaryen conquerors.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound suggestive, his face contorted. “Daeron Targaryen.”

“The boy that could not hold Dorne,” she raised her eyebrows, putting the book down, intrigued.

“But he still conquered it at the mere age of 14. He did what no other could before him.”

“Thousands died,” she argued.

“Aye. He still did it,” Jon frowned. “I wouldn’t do what he did but he still did it.”

“His advisors should have told him not to do that,” she pointed out.

He thought of Tyrion. He wanted to let out a bitter laugh. “I reckon you can’t really tell your monarch no,” Jon objected. He was not one of those people, everyone loved telling him he could not do stuff. But there were some leaders like her father or Stannis Baratheon or the little shit, Joffrey Baratheon, there was nothing that could be said to them.

“What is the point of having advisors if they cannot advise you?” she asked figuratively.

Jon raised his eyebrow at her. “I do not always agree with mine,” she admitted with a slight bow of her head.

The sides of his lips curved. “I suppose he didn’t agree with his either.”

“Well, we agree that certain things must be done. We just do not agree on how to do them,” she looked to Jon, swallowing. She felt guilty he could tell by the way her eyes barely met his. But she did not realize he knew.

“I hear you give them hard time.” Hear. See. Watch. Observe. Witness. Note. “It’s starting to show on Lord Tyrion’s face.”

Once the half-man started to gray, he hoped someone would direct all the jesting the little lord’s way. He deserved it too.

“He was tired long before he started advising me,” she said, her voice rising slightly in defense. “Though, he does get it the worse.”

“Is he your favorite?” Jon watched their relationship. She would get jealous of the love he still had for his siblings. They fought even over silly things like the color of the sky, he overheard one day in training. Even in her anger, she would touch his shoulder or look regretful. She never stayed mad. The next hour, you may find them strolling the beaches together, speaking animatedly.

“He is the cheekiest and the cleverest,” she allowed. “It is true I give them a hard time, if it is not me, who will?” she questioned Jon with genuine curiosity in her eyes. _Everyone. Everyone gives him a hard time,_ Jon thought. Even he when he was younger, Jon did not suppose she saw that. How his height did not allow him to receive equal respect by others. _Of course, she did not care, she didn’t care about any of those things._ Not even his own bastard title it seemed.

“The people.”

“They do not serve the people, they serve me, and I serve the people.” Jon’s eyes squinted. He couldn’t understand why they could not do both, how they were not the same “I come to them with problems and they give me solutions or they come to me with problems with all possible resolutions. They keep me focused so I can govern,” she spoke.

“I do not want their idle ideas. I want their schemes. I want their opinions. I do not want their first, second or third thoughts,” she explained. “When they come to me, their tongue should not be in their cheek. I want them confident with the best results possible.”

That explains their dynamic. Jon wondered if this only worked because of the type of people they were or perhaps, the respect they had for each other. “It would be unwise to test a king or queen,” he said, still. “It got my father killed.”

“The King that sentenced your father to death is dead.” It was not assurance or comfort that came from her tongue. It was a point. “And his mother has a war coming to her doorstep. If she had taken advisement from the practicing Hand, she could be on Casterly Rock with all her children alive, still living a life of luxury. Sometimes a test is what we need. Whether we fail or pass is up to us.” She was talking with passion. Her eyes glowed as she spoke her mind.

“What he did was right. I expect nothing short of near perfection from my advisors as well as myself. We have failed recently, not of just our own accord but we have failed nonetheless. The lives of millions rest in my hands and I do not take that lightly. If I stop doing my duty, I expect to be checked.”

Jon nodded his head slowly. “Is that why you read so much as well? To be smarter than everyone else.”

“Lord Tyrion, Lord Varys, Missandei and I get along so well not only because we wish the best for people but because we also value intelligence. I love to be well-informed. Cultured. Also, books provide a great leisure activity.” She held up the one she was reading and smiled.

“Really?” He remembered her and Sam talking about this early. He tried to tune them out, though now it must be important for it to come up twice.

“Poetry, especially.” Jon smiled. He did not want to but she looked pleased as she nodded enthusiastically. He should have been able to tell with how she managed to riddle herself. “I love poetry, tall tales and songs. It is an art. It is beautiful what people can put down on parchment.”

“I’m not much of a reader. I don’t do good with languages or know hymens either,” he acknowledged.

“I suppose not,” she said, tongue in her cheek. “You are a man of action. I do not expect you battle with texts.”

“Definitely not.” Though he did read about battles, it was strategy but not something he looked forward to.

“I fight with them on purpose most of the time,” she confessed, her eyes down. “I question everything and it pisses them off but then they go to their chambers and think for hours. They rework and find new ways to solve any issue presented to them.”

She looked for judgement on his face but he had guessed that after the many nights of watching them argue and her just agree an hour later. It was like they needed to convince themselves, and then her of everything they spoke. “Arguments are just as much teaching as a book.”

Jon frowned. “Think about it, Jon. Who argues more and is more understanding to different beliefs? The educated or uneducated,” she sat up higher, leaning closer to him.

“The uneducated are easier to sway,” he offered, glancing around slightly. Only a few guards were around and they were not paying mind to them.

“Wrong,” she shook her head. “The poor cling to their beliefs because it is all they have. Their gods, their ideologies, whatever is going on in the capital or main city’s that can distract from their deprivation and lack of wealth. The educated want to know more, always.” This Jon was familiar with. This was one of the first things he noticed when he met Gilly and she explained as much this morning.

“They want to know how people think and different ways of life. It is control and it can make them dangerous, smart and powerful. Another reason why they like to starve the poor and make sure they cannot receive proper education. The more illiterate and desperate they are, the easier they are to control. It’s not right,” she shook her head a few more times before glancing at him.

“I want to be well-informed. Therefore, I need my advisors to be the wisest, experienced and most intelligent they can be. We need to argue. They need to be contested and I need to be challenged to be the best leader I can. My people deserve no less.”

“You expect so much from individuals that are taught to dread their superiors.” _Don’t bring it up yet._

She faltered a bit. “Advisors should never fear you.”

“Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid of you,” he said, watching her stiffen.

“Are you afraid of me Jon Snow?”

As he looked in to her purple eyes, he wanted to ask in what ways. He was certain she would not physically harm or kill him.

“No,” he settled.

“Are you a fool?” she scowled.

“Aye.” It was dark now. He should go to bed but he knew that everything she said would frustrate him. He paused, considering leaving. He even shifted, wanting to get up but he could not bring himself to do it. “You burned the Tarly’s,” Jon commented before he could stop himself. Daenerys froze. “I overheard Lord Tyrion talking to Missandei.”

“Did you tell him?” Her voice was a sad whisper. Jon shook his head. “Why did you not tell him?”

“I wanted to know why? I can’t just tell my closest friend his family died without knowing why.” He was upset. When he saw her, immediately, he was not, after a moment, he was. He purely desired a quick talk, mediocre formalities, and then sleep. It was a stupid thought to have a seat because the more he sat with her, the more the knowledge ate at him.

“They would not bend the knee.” Her stoic mask slipped back on. It was a farce. She cared.

“Neither did I,” he gritted out. _Not until recently._ Though they seemed to thoroughly disregard it.

“But you did not bow to Cersei either.”

“She is the Queen to them, she’s there,” he waved his hand in the direction they were sailing. Jon did not believe she truly understood the depth of the Westerosi’s hatred for foreigners, for her father, which would prove problematic when they went north.

“I gave them an option and I would have protected them as much as she. They chose to bow to a queen that is only concerned about herself and her brother-lover, not the common folk. She has no morals.” He could have brought up that her allies were dead, that her words of protection were wasted but knew it was neither the time nor place.

“So, you burned them?” He refused to let her slip back into coldness with him.

“My cells remain empty for a reason. I do not take prisoners.”

“These people think you and your soldiers to be savages. You have to convince them you are not,” he argued as she pulled away.

“I gave them an option,” she retorted. Jon understood the argument that night she came back now.

“Bend the knee or die? That’s not an option, not really,” he murmured.

“You sound like Tyrion,” she said tersely.

“He’s right then,” Jon snapped.

“You say they think of my people as savages but they supported a queen who burned hundreds, the same crime my father got condemned for. She watched as children got murdered and stood aside while her son not only defiled women but got your father killed.”

“You need not remind me,” Jon glared.

“I told you Jon, there is no pardon in my kingdom. You must reap what you sow.” She thought this was justice. In a way, it is. These people were not innocent. It was war. But had she given them time, they would have come around. He did.

“I’m no fan of the man, he made Sam leave for not being his perfect noble son,” Jon confessed, instinctively pulling her by her leg back to her original position, feet tucked under him.

“So why are you arguing with me?”

“To challenge you,” he echoed. “You have a temper, Dany. It burns all over your body and through your eyes to the point of blindness. Submission does not mean loyalty, vows are just sayings. If they don’t believe, you will never get true loyalty,” Jon said, fairly, with all his experience in tow, anger diminishing at the softening of her eyes and the hurt in her voice.

“Before you rule over all seven kingdoms, I must insist you consider mercy. People not being able to understand and maybe, trust, at first, leads to dangerous situations later.” It is true, Jon is not a patient man, but he’d seen these situations play out so many times. It had cost him thousands of lives, his own life.

“Will you tell him?”

“Will you?” he asked back at her, wondering if she was truly listening to him.

“I was before you said you might.” He let out a sigh of relief. He shook his head. She needed to speak with him. Sam would be her people now as well. She had to deal with it. “Do I disgust you now?”

“Are you sorry?” Jon tested.

“No.”

“Do you sleep well at night?” he probed, accepting her honesty.

“No.”

“Then no.”

“I do what I must,” she said, her face going blank again. But this time Jon knew it wasn’t out of defiance and vindication.

“We bear the weight so they do not have to,” Jon spoke, his breath catching in his throat as her eyes shone.

 _Stop._ He looked away immediately, snatching the book off her lap, opening it. Distracting himself. “There are only pictures in this.”

She gave the boldest smile at his confusion, eyes holding astuteness. “Not all the time, but _sometimes,_ words are not needed, Jon Snow.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

When Sansa was a girl, she had known Podrick to be a stumbletongue. However, the older she grew, the more she saw the earnest in his untidy words. There was truth, honesty and positivity that flowed from his mouth. At the present, though, it was aggravating.

Brienne insisted on leaving her squire here. That was over a fortnight ago and both grew restless. There was no word from the lady night, nor Jon since she got word from him that he bent the knee. That day she almost collapsed.

The only person around was Baelish. She kept her farce up before turning to Bran. Both her siblings were insane and though her and Arya’s siblingship grew tremendously after killing Petyr, wariness never stopped plaguing her.

She refused to speak to the lords on Jon’s behalf about pledging himself to the Targaryen Queen. He could figure that out himself for Sansa hadn’t a clue on how to handle that in a way that he would be welcomed. The lords would be unhappy, and they were already conspiring behind his back.

Sansa tapped her fingers against her desk nervously. And the angrier she grew the louder the noise emitting from her action became.

The more she thought about her brother, the more frustrated and unsettled she became. This plan was not going to work and she feared she may have sent Brienne to her death. Her brother, he could die too. She tried to remind herself, the Dragon Queen was on their side but the trust she had for her was scant.

Podrick barged into the room making Sansa jump. “What?!” Sansa said abruptly, rather harshly.

“Sorry, My Lady. I-I-”

His eyes surveyed the room. Sansa raised her eyebrows waiting for him to finish his thought.

“I heard a noise,” was all he said looking down.

The boy followed her around like a lost hound, only standing tall in front of lords and Arya. She assumed because Arya scared the daylights out of him as well. His companionship was not problematic, and she enjoyed not having to always play some kind of mind game to see where his head was at, it always seemed to be looking down.

She made the tapping noise again with her fingers. His head rose. She gritted her teeth and continued doing it, watching the realization come to his features. 

“Oh.”

Sansa nodded her head slowly, waiting for him to realize he was still there, staring at her. “Oh.”

“Oh,” she mimicked him, her patience of the day thinning.

She had avoided saying his last name around Arya. Podrick annoyed her but he was a familiar face. She would be dead if it had not been for him, Lady Brienne, her brother and Theon. And out of all of them, Podrick was the only one she knew to most definitely be alive at the moment.

“Wait!” Sansa called out. Podrick froze by the door.

“How fond of Lady Brienne do you think Jaime Lannister to be?” Sansa knew for certain that her sword and shield had some sort of respect for the Lannister Knight, but she needed to understand the odds of her Lady coming back.

Podrick’s face fell, and Sansa’s stomach dropped. “Ah- Why, My Lady?”

“Because I need to know I have not made a mistake in sending her down there.”

Sansa did not want to admit that to him. Not to anyone.

“It has only been little over a fortnight.” Podrick thought carefully. “She should just be arriving there.” If the woman rushed like she encouraged.

He seemed to have far more confidence than she.

The pensive look on his face deepened. “They have a fair deal of respect for each other, My Lady,” the squire answered.

“Enough to see her here alive once more?”

“I believe so,” Podrick nodded carefully before adding, “If he could see her back here himself, I imagine he would.”

Those were strong words. Though, if anyone would know the answer to this, it would be Podrick. Sansa’s eyes squinted as uncertainty passed his face.

“You do not seem convinced,” Sansa observed.

“I am, My Lady,” Podrick said with a considerable amount of confidence this time.

“If I am not too bold, My Lady, you seem more apprehensive than usual.”

Sansa wished she could be around people a little less vigilant occasionally.

“Well, I fear I have sent the woman who has sworn to protect me, to her death based on her semi important relationship with Queen Cersei Lannister’s brother,” she paused. “My brother, whom I have not seen in months is going to address the woman who held me captive for years, whose son murdered our father, and all of this,” she waved her hand around, standing up, “After I’ve just sentenced the man who kept me alive-,”

“Hardly,” Podrick mumbled.

Her head snapped up and the “… to death,” just barely slipped past her lips. Sansa lifted her chin, “You would not trust him either.” She shook her head, a humorless laugh escaping her. Podrick understood what it was like to grow up around power hungry and ladder climbing individuals. Podrick _Payne._

“No one smart would trust Little Finger.” His head was still down as he echoed her own words not too long ago.

“Sometimes I forget you were there too,” Sansa said quietly. When she looked up, she saw a very attentive looking Podrick staring at her. “In King’s Landing,” she cleared her throat.

“You were never safe with him, you did the right thing.” His eyes held an uncomfortable amount of conviction and sympathy. Podrick was not a fan of death nor fighting, but she knew that when the time came and actions needed to be taken, he would not coward away, as she normally did.

“I did not do it. Arya did.” Sansa looked down at the table, moving parchment pieces and ink around, attempting to keep her hands busy. “And my father always said the man that passes the sentence should swing the sword.” _Joffrey did not swing the sword either. Both of us cowards._

She did not look up at Podrick for she did not know if when she started speaking of her father if voice cracked. As her and Arya started talking further, the more they started speaking on their family. The feeling of guilt washed over her every night as she thought about all the ways she had been cruel to the people who had only tried to love her. Depression wafted over her in waves as she thought about all the lost moments her and her mother and father would never share, all the times she tried to get out of playing with Rickon or yelling at Robb about something stupid. Hating Jon for no reason at all. She was so stupid.

“Everyone has their strengths, Lady Stark. Lady Arya, she’s-,” A small smile tugged at her lips as Podrick seemed to fumble for words at describing her aloof sister. “Your mind and experience are yours as her skills in combat are hers.”

Sansa knew that Arya’s skills were far wider ranged than Podrick’s knowledge but she kept that to herself.

“And what are your skills, Ser?” Sansa looked back up to the squire who stood clumsily ringing his hands.

Podrick blushed. “My mind and- well- well-,” Podrick trailed off considerably before coming to another answer. “My heart. I am not very good at fighting as you can perhaps tell-”

“Your heart?” Sansa enquired more pretentiously than intended.

“I am not a cruel person, My Lady. I was told I have a good heart, moral and light.”

“How is that a strength?” she bit. Everyone good around her always died.

“Well,” Podrick seemed a bit loss for words. “Light helps guide people out from darkness.”

“My lady,” he added quickly. “Good people, they often bring change, goodness in others, goodness in the world, at least that is what I like to hope.” Podrick swallowed his nerves and stood straighter. His words seemed to mean a great deal to him.

“I think remaining decent requires a great amount of strength in times like these.”

Sansa was inclined to agree. Though she did not think she possessed such quantities.

 

 

***

 

 

“Count to a hundred in High Valyrian, Your Grace.” Tyrion spoke these words softly to Daenerys as they walked beside each other towards the pit. Her soldiers and the remaining Lannister troops were everywhere, everyone ready for a battle that she swore she would not let happen.

She steeled herself. She felt nothing until Jon smiled at her. It was encouraging and she sensed her lips tug. Her tether to Drogon became heavy as he reminded her that she was in a dangerous place.

She nodded towards The King, fixing her stoicism back in position.

As the meeting area came into view, he walked off before them, his march stronger than it had been when they first met, his face holding none of the softness it held moments ago. He fixed himself just as she did.

Lord Tyrion stopped and looked up at her. “Are we ready?” She raised her eyebrow at him. He was nervous. She wanted to smile at him but she remained passive, only putting an arm on his shoulder for comfort.

“We have been here for some time now,” Cersei’s voice rang through. Daenerys resisted a scoff. It was directed at her. Drogons roar echoed all throughout the pit, even from above. Jon froze. Tyrion halted but Daenerys never stopped her stride, glancing at everyone in the vicinity once.

Cersei paled slightly, that and her grip on her chair were the only signs of her discomfort at the sounds of her child. Everyone else but her and Jon’s people looked startled. Daenerys battled the tug of satisfaction on her lips and clamped down on her feelings. She lifted her head out proudly, taking her seat. She waited for Tyrion to sit before clearly stating her apologies.

She did not say much in the entire conference, letting her Lord Hand dance with words. Cersei was quick. Her reputation did indeed precede her. She listened intently to the careful words spoken, only injecting when clarification was necessary.

On the ship, Jon had asked how many people lived in the capital and Tyrion gave her a pointed look before telling him millions. Do not lose your temper was what the look told her. And Jon had repeated it again when they showed Cersei what awaited them all.

When Euron left, she wanted to mutter that he was a coward but she fixed herself with a sardonic smile instead.

It was too good to be true. A truce. A truce without a drawback.

She watched the first sign of uncertainty cross Jon’s face as the Lannister Queen asked him to stay neutral. He would not lie. Daenerys had not known him long but she knew that. So, when he did not, she could not fathom everyone else’s upset.

When Cersei’s eyes fell and anger seemed to rise in her posture, Daenerys bit her tongue. _Ned Stark’s son._ She remembered her Lord Hand’s words on his honor and honesty, _he died with a lie on his lips._ Is that what Cersei expected? Jon Snow to die in this war with a lie on his lips, just like his father.

Daenerys felt her stomach drop as Jon’s face flooded with guilt and regret. She looked away.

“Your hands will be wet with the blood of the realm and you will just lick it off.” Her voice was low, still and clear. Cersei’s footsteps halted.

Feeling a felt a tug on her tether, she knew she was not safe as Cersei turned back around, face fixed with hostility. Jon moved closer to her group of people.

“You will not fight in the war that may doom us all or at least call a ceasefire because the King in the North won’t hold still?” The attention completely on her made her feel empowered. She knew everything she said now would matter.

“A man determines your decisions?” It was an ugly taunt, Daenerys realized when Lord Tyrion urged her to stop speaking.

“No, the northern people do. And I am sure they would not like to follow another mad monarch.”

Anger, it flashed through her. Quick and hot.

_Compartmentalize._

“Yet you ask The King to hold no loyalties, knowing that if he did, he would be following another mad monarch.” Her Hand touched her arm. Cersei smiled.

It was cold and patronizing. The pull on her tether stung again.

“He is pledged to you now. He is no King. He is nothing. Just a bastard once again.” Daenerys gritted her teeth, not even bothering to look at Jon’s face. It would break her resolve. “Before I knew that he was under your ruling, I offered him an arrangement. Not you, I will not ask anything of you. It would hardly be fair-,”

“Fair,” Daenerys repeated, slighted. “Life is not fair. You should know that seeing as your family has orchestrated the destruction of his and mine. You should especially know that as woman of this world,” Daenerys gritted out.

“You have blown up so many people with the wildfire my father had created, destroyed thousands of lives, yet you have the boldness to utter my family, me, mad.” She could have laughed. Another pull on her tether.

She stood, her hands clasped to her front, looking to the Lannister soldiers. “Jon Snow has come south to ask for support in a war that is not just his and we are squabbling about a game of thrones,” she turned back to Cersei whose face held scorn. “And you want him to swear no fieldties, after I have already pledged myself to fight in the war he is leading.”

“The King in the North has come here,” she enunciated king, and waved around vaguely, “Where his father was sentenced to be murdered by your son,” she looked at both Usurper and her brother Knight, “And you demand he stay neutral?”

“Your youngest brother speaks highly of you,” Daenerys spoke honestly and far softer than she had before. She saw woman finally falter. “Your intelligence and strength,” she paused, clenching her teeth. The tether throbbed. “But I think you are delusional.” Daenerys gave one last glance at Cersei before turning away.

“Daenerys!” She was not sure whose voice that was. All she felt was warmth. All she saw was red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all this concludes part 1! I hope you guys enjoyed this. I like this chapter far more than the previous two and it was a bit of a doozy.
> 
> Sam is a dream to write dialogue for and I stan for Sansa out here, so if y'all don't feel her, idk. I have a lot planned, please let me know if you want me to continue to post it. I was shooting for 20 chapters for this story but I don't know how many of you guys are still here. I know some readers through tumblr now, I have no problem sharing it there instead if that is better so let me know if you guys are still with me here and want me to keep going. 
> 
> I wrote a shit ton of smut in the last week and I have no idea how some of you guys do it. It is such a breeze to get through reading it but writing, GURL. I am like, how many times can I say center and mound without having my reader want to stab themselves in the eye but anyways. 
> 
> But yeah, I will reply to the comments on last chapter soon but I started another semester a few days ago sooooo, yeah, ya girl already has 16 assignments. But comment even if it is a "hey I am still here" or "yo, this was fire" or your theories. Whatever you have for me, I will gladly take. I read them all. Seriously. Twice over. It really does help me with my writing and confidence. I do have so many story ideas especially for GOT. I am tinkering with a modern Westoros fantasy fic in my head right now and another one where Robb is still alive and kicking for my friend who was waiting for me to do something crazy like bring him back since she has read some of the next couple of chapters. Now she is like, abort mission, fanfics are supposed to be happy and shit. Do what the show doesn't yada yada lmfaooo I can't write fluff, y'all. All i got is tears, smut and sarcasm.
> 
> But yeah, comment. Let me know if you guys are still around!
> 
> ETA: YASSSSSS GUYS GO TF OFF! Stan Dany like I did after spoils of war because you know ya girl was PISSED at anti-Dany fans after that episode. SOUND OFF! I love reading the defence. Keep that shit coming!


	5. Stay East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All of them back there-” her voice trailed off.
> 
> “There was still a plan to get out. You must trust that it worked.” Daenerys could hear the weariness in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Iane, my lovely beta, thank you for being wonderful, helpful and supportive.
> 
> &My deepest apologies for the wait but please enjoy <3

_ PART II _ _: on the road_

 

 

_Previously_

_“Count to a hundred in High Valyrian, Your Grace.” Tyrion spoke these words softly to Daenerys as they walked beside each other towards the pit. Her soldiers and the remaining Lannister troops were everywhere, everyone ready for a battle that she swore she would not let happen._

_She steeled herself. She felt nothing until Jon smiled at her. It was encouraging and she sensed her lips tug. Her tether to Drogon became heavy as he reminded her that she was in a dangerous place._

_She nodded towards The King, fixing her stoicism back in position._

_As the meeting area came into view, he walked off before them, his march stronger than it had been when they first met, his face holding none of the softness it held moments ago. He fixed himself just as she did._

_Lord Tyrion stopped and looked up at her. “Are we ready?” She raised her eyebrow at him. He was nervous. She wanted to smile at him but she remained passive, only putting an arm on his shoulder for comfort._

_“We have been here for some time now,” Cersei’s voice rang through. Daenerys resisted a scoff. It was directed at her. Drogons roar echoed all throughout the pit, even from above. Jon froze. Tyrion halted but Daenerys never stopped her stride, glancing at everyone in the vicinity once._

_Cersei paled slightly, that and her grip on her chair were the only signs of her discomfort at the sounds of her child. Everyone else but her and Jon’s people looked startled. Daenerys battled the tug of satisfaction on her lips and clamped down on her feelings. She lifted her head out proudly, taking her seat. She waited for Tyrion to sit before clearly stating her apologies._

_She did not say much in the entire conference, letting her Lord Hand dance with words. Cersei was quick. Her reputation did indeed precede her. She listened intently to the careful words spoken, only injecting when clarification was necessary._

_On the ship, Jon had asked how many people lived in the capital and Tyrion gave her a pointed look before telling him millions. Do not lose your temper was what the look told her. And Jon had repeated it again when they showed Cersei what awaited them all._

_When Euron left, she wanted to mutter that he was a coward but she fixed herself with a sardonic smile instead._

_It was too good to be true. A truce. A truce without a drawback._

_She watched the first sign of uncertainty cross Jon’s face as the Lannister Queen asked him to stay neutral. He would not lie. Daenerys had not known him long but she knew that. So, when he did not, she could not fathom everyone else’s upset._

_When Cersei’s eyes fell and anger seemed to rise in her posture, Daenerys bit her tongue. Ned Stark’s son. She remembered her Lord Hand’s words on his honor and honesty, he died with a lie on his lips. Is that what Cersei expected? Jon Snow to die in this war with a lie on his lips, just like his father._

_Daenerys felt her stomach drop as Jon’s face flooded with guilt and regret. She looked away._

_“Your hands will be wet with the blood of the realm and you will just lick it off.” Her voice was low, still and clear. Cersei’s footsteps halted._

_Feeling a felt a tug on her tether, she knew she was not safe as Cersei turned back around, face fixed with hostility. Jon moved closer to her group of people._

_“You will not fight in the war that may doom us all or at least call a ceasefire because the King in the North won’t hold still?” The attention completely on her made her feel empowered. She knew everything she said now would matter._

_“A man determines your decisions?” It was an ugly taunt, Daenerys realized when Lord Tyrion urged her to stop speaking._

_“No, the northern people do. And I am sure they would not like to follow another mad monarch.”_

_Anger, it flashed through her. Quick and hot._

_Compartmentalize._

_“Yet you ask The King to hold no loyalties, knowing that if he did, he would be following another mad monarch.” Her Hand touched her arm. Cersei smiled._

_It was cold and patronizing. The pull on her tether stung again._

_“He is pledged to you now. He is no King. He is nothing. Just a bastard once again.” Daenerys gritted her teeth, not even bothering to look at Jon’s face. It would break her resolve. “Before I knew that he was under your ruling, I offered him an arrangement. Not you, I will not ask anything of you. It would hardly be fair-,”_

_“Fair,” Daenerys repeated, slighted. “Life is not fair. You should know that seeing as your family has orchestrated the destruction of his and mine. You should especially know that as woman of this world,” Daenerys gritted out._

_“You have blown up so many people with the wildfire my father had created, destroyed thousands of lives, yet you have the boldness to utter my family, me, mad.” She could have laughed. Another pull on her tether._

_She stood, her hands clasped to her front, looking to the Lannister soldiers. “Jon Snow has come south to ask for support in a war that is not just his and we are squabbling about a game of thrones,” she turned back to Cersei whose face held scorn. “And you want him to swear no fieldties, after I have already pledged myself to fight in the war he is leading.”_

_“The King in the North has come here,” she enunciated king, and waved around vaguely, “Where his father was sentenced to be murdered by your son,” she looked at both Usurper and her brother Knight, “And you demand he stay neutral?”_

_“Your youngest brother speaks highly of you,” Daenerys spoke honestly and far softer than she had before. She saw woman finally falter. “Your intelligence and strength,” she paused, clenching her teeth. The tether throbbed. “But I think you are delusional.” Daenerys gave one last glance at Cersei before turning away._

_“Daenerys!” She was not sure whose voice that was. All she felt was warmth. All she saw was red._

 

 

 

The days passed by slowly and with no word. Even Ghost had disappeared, Sansa noticed with a nostalgic heart.

She did her best to disguise her distress as annoyance, though today her anxieties crept upon her. She found herself surveying the grounds for ice and counting the food supply twice over.

“The northern lords have been quiet,” Podrick remarked wistfully watching her plan for them from a few paces behind her.

He walked slow. She had refused to tread behind him though he urged her caution, which she ignored haughtily. He was the one that needed to mind his step, as he kept gliding on melting ice.

She thought of telling him to take smaller but surer steps, but he could learn on his own, she decided.

“Yes, but I still have to prepare for their council.”

The castle was impeccable; clean and well stocked. They were ready for siege. And they were ready as ready could be for the hell Jon was sure to bring with him when he returned.

_If he returns._

Sansa shook the thought off. She refused for there to be anything for the lords to comment on. They would be sent rations if needed. Trade was now feasible. And all that remained of her family, sans Jon, were home. Everything she could do had been done, yet still she itched with worry and busied herself with nonsense.

She thought about taking up stitching once more.

“Why? You would call upon them if there was news.” Sansa grinded her teeth. “What could they possibly want? The snow has stopped. It is still." 

It was still. Too still. She swallowed. The air was dry and crisp. No wind assaulted them, and the roads were being cleared.

Sansa watched the servants throw salt in the courtyard per her command, so the remaining servants could tend to their duties.

It was calm. 

“That is not how snow works here. It will fall again, and again, and again,” she drawled out tiredly, “Possibly harder than before. At some point, it may fall so hard people will be unable to leave their homes.” _Unlike now._ She tapped her fingers against the edge of the upper walkway. “Starve. And die. We must prepare. Winter is upon us.” 

“But-” Podrick started as she turned on her heels. “Sorry, my lady,” he muttered trailing behind her. 

“Continue, Podrick.” Sansa had not walked away to be rude, but being outside was doing little to soothe her nerves. She seemed to watch the gate every time she stepped out of the keep.

It never opened. 

“You were not born in the winter. How-”

 _Would she know?_ She continued in her head for him, whirling around to take an opposite pathway back to her chambers.

“I am northern, Podrick. This is all northerners discuss. It is my house’s words-, seven hells-” she stopped shortly, Podrick bumping into her and sending them tumbling down. 

She fumbled, composing herself, stiffening at his proximity while he stumbled over his apologies. She shrunk at the offer of his hand much to both of their dismay.

Swallowing down her nausea, she grabbed it before he pulled away and was swiftly brought to her feet. She darted her eyes away from his sad ones. She needn’t his help nor his pity.

Righting herself, she stood straight and waved him off.

Turning back to what made her stop abruptly, she was greeted with a thin sheet of glassy ice. It covered the entirety of the next walkway and, from her vision, the stairs to the bailey as well. 

This part of the castle was hardly used. The walkway held little cover from the weather, so most people tended to avoid it. She shouldn’t waste the supplies, but the servants could crack it she supposed. _Let it melt._

Sansa turned back around to see Podrick still standing there. She thought back to their conversation, acknowledging she had not entirely dismissed him. He probably would not have listened.

“They wish to say something and they will soon come. Little Finger’s execution mollified them,” she continued quietly, walking past the squire in the same direction they came from.

“You still feel remorse.” It was not a question that slipped from his lips. Sansa walked faster.

He did not let up this time, stepping beside her as she bounded towards the stairs. She rushed down them, her cape billowing behind as she hurried inside, away from the servants.

It ate at her. Everything seemed to be clawing at her insides and when she wanted to confide in Arya or Bran, there was nothing. Emotionless. It was like speaking to bricks.

“He died pleading for mercy. On his hands and knees,” she threw back at the squire in an angry whisper. “I know what it is to be weak and desire the stability of power. No one can abuse you.”

She need not turn around to know that Podrick’s face was somber. She could feel it in the narrow corridor.

She strode faster, craving more distance. 

“He was a deceitful man. He was not innocent.”

Sansa sighed and turned, finally reaching the solar.

 “Yes. Innocence seems to die slowly and then all at once. Screaming but only in one’s mind.”

 

 

***

 

 

It was a strange humming that awoke Daenerys, her eyes dry and her head light, the smell of fire, pine and musk surrounding her. She blinked twice, clearing her vision. 

People, they were hurrying around.

It was not a clear sight, shadowy and indistinct figures, but they moved at trying speeds.

It was not until she attempted to move her limbs did she realize that she was bound. She tried to twist her body around to see anything, but all she felt was a body pressed on to her.

Panic rose in her throat, nearly suffocating in her own scream.

She shifted to see a face, but something dark blocked her view. There was an arm around her lower stomach. She shoved at it harshly, hissing when it only held firmer.

She was hushed, a rough hand covering her mouth. Her head throbbed, but her body kicked from oncoming adrenaline. She bit down hard upon the hand that smothered her, causing it to snatch away. Her mouth tasted of copper as she heaved the arm off her. She threw her elbow back in an attempt to skirt away.

Her mind reveled in accomplishment as she rushed towards the street people that were scurrying through.

_Why were they running?_

_Does not matter._

She floated with the crowd, hoping to lose herself in the madness of the streets. There had to be hundreds on that single path, cramped together, being trampled. Bodies full of sweat went past her. The smell of pine faded away and was replaced with something vile.

Her feet moved quickly and her mind caught up gracefully though the pain in her head intensified. The tether. It was a dull ache. The pain of a wound not fully recognized.

 _Drogon._  

The Pit. Her feet stopped as she looked up to see falling ash.

Bile rose in her throat. 

Head whipping around, she searched for a way to bring herself back to The Pit. Devastation coursed through her.

Tyrion gave her one job and she failed at it. She had not even seen him coming.

She did not get far as a hand gripped her forearm tightly and tugged her backwards behind an abandoned cart. 

“Stop.” _Jon._ His voice was harsh, angry, as his hand waved slightly with pain. 

“What is going on?” Daenerys’ head darted around at the chaos, the thick hood falling off slightly.

“Pull this up now.” Jon yanked her down, fastening the strings of the cloak she did not know she wore. His grip on her was tight as he whirled his head around, watching the streets, eyes darting chaotically, analyzing. 

She was confused, and his grip was starting to burn her skin.

“Jon, let go of me.” He shushed her, and she saw red, yanking her arm from him, stifling her cry as his body turned to her sharply.

“Do you trust me?” She wanted to say no, but his eyes burned with tension and worry combined. She could see fear in them. She nodded once and he told her. “Quiet down, will you?”

He reached for her hand and clasped them together and moved quickly through the path, towards the other side. 

She almost gagged at the smell of the alleyway Jon led her through. Although she had been used to hovels in her youth, these streets were of the foulest smelling areas she had ever happened upon. 

Their steps were quick, almost running, until they reached another street. They stopped as Jon peered around the corner. She looked up and saw the shadow of her forefather’s home, her vision crisp as day.

She was so close.

Swallowing, she glanced around. Flea Bottom. The slums.

_Explains the smell._

They were at the edge, beginning to cross into another area. Jon sprinted, pulling her along as the people pushed around. Bodies slammed into her, breaking them apart and pulling her down.

She realized they were all running now. She did not call his name in fear, only heaved back to her feet and followed the same direction until she was pulled again.

 _Pine._ Jon hauled her to him, latching her onto him as he pushed past the people, head down, only bothering to look back every now and again.

They seemed to run for hours, though it was likely to have been just tens of minutes. She could hardly see where they were going. Houses and buildings lined up, so close to each other, there was barely room for anyone to shit in peace. It smelled of urine and vermin. Litter crumpled beneath their feet and smoke seemed to fill the air.

Her stomach was queasy with worry. Her tether did not betray the disaster that seemed to be looming.

They passed by a child screaming for their mother, but before Daenerys could pull away from Jon, he yanked towards another direction. Tears stung her eyes as she realized the city was in a state of emergency.

Jon stilled, cursing.

She moved her head up to look at him, but he shoved it back down and pinned her against the wall. His head fell into her neck, beside her ears as he whispered an apology. She gritted her teeth as his hands skirted along her body roughly. She cringed, shaking at every grab. His hands were neither forgiving, nor thoughtful. Nothing about him felt warm and everything smelled of feces and debris.

She had not been disrespected like this in years. She shivered, feeling dirty.

Her vision blurred with fury.

A funneling sound snapped her from her mind.

Her breath halted in her throat as she heard marching. She saw the red capes billowing and shoving past civilians from the corner of her eyes. 

 _Lannister troops._

His hands became rougher, and Daenerys finally understood what he was doing and struggled against him. He stiffened, covering her mouth, as he chanted apologies.

She gritted her teeth, but as soon as the soldiers cleared he wrenched himself from her, not touching her, his hands held up. She could see his face layered with disgust, eyes betraying his guilt.

She peered around the edge of the building, pushing past people before setting off in the same direction, wishing she knew what they were doing. 

She only briefly glanced up to see a sign; one side labeled ‘The Hook,’ another pointing east named ‘Muddy Way,’ towards the Street of Steel.

“East.” Jon’s voice was gruff but soft.

Together, they both pushed past the crowd, seeming to trudge in the opposite direction of where the hoards were headed. It was not long until they reached the Street of Steel, which smelled of metals and flames, layered with forges and smiths talking animatedly. There were whispers of fire, dragon, and the Queen.

_Which Queen?_

The lower down the hill they walked, the more suspicious the forges got and the people looked, but there was a lifted gate. Jon’s pace quickened.

Men glanced her way, but Jon gripped her wrist and wrung her along towards and past the entry. A few paces ahead, there was a river. It did not look as cerulean as the water they had come across. It was littered with waste and smelled of filthy odors. 

As they rounded yet another corner, Jon started to head towards a figure in a light brown cloak. It was a man. Jon bounded towards him, hastening.

“What happened?” She knew the voice but could not place it. She looked up to see a face but it was mostly wrapped in a scarf. He had blue eyes though. And they searched her, around her. He walked past her and peered through the gate. Frustration coursed through her as she wracked her memory for who it could be.

“Long story.”

The cloaked man stomped back towards them, eyes riddled with worry.

“Where is Davos?” He sounded younger in that moment. _I know him._ Though they could not see, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. _I should remember his name._

“He was not that far behind me, but he pushed me along.” Jon’s voice sounded guilt ridden. The boy only nodded and reached behind a pile of what looked to be rubbish and pulled out a few sacks.

He handed Jon two while he took one. They marched towards a makeshift dock, where the man handed a few coins to another man and turned towards herself and Jon. Pointing, he said, “We don’t have time. Get in the boat.”

Daenerys’ head snapped towards Jon who looked conflicted. In the distance, they could still hear the commotion within the city walls.

“We can wait.” As if right on signal, they heard a woman shrieking. Daenerys turned her head around to see the going-ons but everything seemed as it was when they first left the gates.

The man sighed and waved his hands, “Do you hear that?” He was obviously southern.

“Yes, but-” Jon started and was immediately hushed.

“You need to go.” The man’s voice was sterner than before as he dropped his sack into the row-boat. He reached and grabbed the ones Jon was holding and dropped them in there as well. “They will be closing down the gates, most likely.” He laid fabric over the sacks. He took a few steps past them and grabbed a barrel before moving towards them once more, continuing, “The capital will be on lockdown.” Daenerys let out a breath she was unaware she was holding. “Until they find you both.” Hay was what laid in the barrel. He dumped some of it in the boat.

“Neither of you can be here.” He pulled some knives from his belt and tucked them into Jon’s and handed her one. He knew her.

Her eyes squinted to try and see his face, but he turned as soon as her palm enclosed the blade.

“If they find you.” Jon grabbed him by the cloak. “If she sees you-”

_Cersei?_

“She won’t,” the man said confidently. “I have been living here most of my life and she hasn’t. I can handle this.” He pulled away from Jon. “You need to leave.” As the noise intensified, he added, “Now.” 

The man’s arm extended across the river as he instructed, “There are three horses across the bay, waitin’.” _Lowborn,_ she deduced. “Supplies are in here. Money. A map.” He handed Jon a folded piece of parchment. “Be careful, these waters are rough. Head towards the Reach. Stay clear of Harrenhall. The crown had knights all around there.”

He paused.

“Stay off the Kings Road. And don’t be obvious,” he drawled out exasperatedly. “Keep fires low until you happen upon loyal territory. Stay out of trouble. Only fight when necessary.” He rolled his eyes, sounding like he was reciting someone else’s words.

“And try not to kill anyone,” he added as an afterthought. He seemed proud.

Jon did not, however. She shifted at the confliction on his face.

“Come with us,” Jon urged. “He knows his way around. He wouldn’t want you to-”

“I’m not leaving him,” the man cut him off, “He saved my life,” he whispered. “I know this area better than him and he’s gettin’ old.”

Jon gritted his teeth and looked back. He was stalling, talking to the man, she observed. 

“He protected me. I have to protect him now.” The voice was stern. “If he was right behind you, we will be not too far back as well. We will figure this out.”

Daenerys knew it to be a lie. A lot can happen in a few moments and they were to take the only boat she could see and all the supplies the man seemed to have. If Ser Davos was indeed unharmed and close behind, they would find difficulty leaving the city, leaving this bay.

“I-I,” Jon could not think of anything. She wished to cut in, but she hadn’t the slightest clue what was going on. 

A horn sounded in the distance. 

The man stiffened. “Go,” he shoved Jon forward, offering a hand to lower her to the boat. “You must hurry. You know what to do.”

Daenerys froze. _He knows what to do._  

She wanted to step out of the boat the men had helped her into and push past them but Jon leaned towards the man and whispered, “Find loyal lands as soon as possible. Find her armies. They will know him.”

“I know,” the man nodded, “Everything will be fine.” His voice was assured though the movement of his eyes made her deflate. “You need to get home. Once you get there, everything here will sort itself out.”

“Find loyal lands. Get out of here. Get him out of here.” Jon’s voice had become authoritative.

“Everything will sort itself out,” the man repeated. “Try not to worry,” he added, laughing lightly though somewhat restricted. “Stay low and discard anything anyone can use to identify you both.” He motioned towards Jon’s chest and sword.

_The pommel._

“Keep her covered,” he continued. “She- this journey is not one for a woman.”

She bristled at the words, even though his voice was sad.

“Everything will be dangerous,” he warned. “Go.”

The man turned to the rope that was keeping the boat at bay.

“Are you certain?” Jon called out.

The man nodded as he unraveled the bonds from the dock. Jon took the paddles as the man threw the rope into the boat, kicking it off.

“We will be close behind,” he assured Jon.

 

 

***

 

 

The waters being rough was a vast understatement. Daenerys was never one to be seasick, always accustomed to traveling, but the rocking of the boat set her nerves alight. Her head spun as the boat shook against the turbulent stream. 

If Jon was struggling to control the boat, she could not tell through his rigid posture. Somewhere along the ride he had steadied her, but that had been the extent of their contact.

The silence that stretched over them, the entire boat journey, left her uneasy. He did not look at her, though she watched him. He knew it too. He only blinked on, staring ahead.

At first, she attempted to catch his attention, to ask questions, but he was unresponsive. His eyes were more blank than she had ever seen them. She could not tell if he was so enraged he was numb, so sad that he became apathetic, or if she was so guilty that she thought him to be full of disappointment.

She had given up trying to figure it out after she thought the boat was going to tip over after hitting a tempestuous spot, gripping the sides of the vessel until the stream calmed. And by that time, she knew they must be docking.

Shortly before, however, she thought about how they could have escaped the city so effortlessly. There were no guards. No peering eyes. Absolutely nothing that it raised her suspicion. Only the cloaked man.

Then she thought back to the Dragon Pit and she hadn’t the slightest clue as to what happened, only that it had to be terrible enough to warrant escape but not frightening enough for people to flee. Only to hide or commit crime and for the city to be in unhinged.

Terror coursed through her when she realized that all her advisors could still be there. She had fled once more, only this time without a dragon. She swallowed and turned to the water, telling herself that they would be alright once more. 

As she peered out the boat she noticed the water had turned clearer, and they were approaching green land. She was still entirely unaware of what had actually happened.

Jon knew though.

The anger that had dissipated resurfaced. She gritted her teeth and sighed, leaning back.

He asked of her trust yet again and he could not seem to lend her some of his.

She steeled herself for land as he shifted across from her. By the time he pulled them close enough to remove the sacks from the boat, she was already reaching for a satchel, pulling her body from the vessel.

 _Three horses,_ the man had said. She gripped the blade he had given her, and looked around the area, sniffing the air. She heard Jon ruffling around in the back, perhaps hastily pulling the boat up to hide, attempting to catch up with her moving feet, but she blocked him out.

She sampled the air from another direction, catching a scent that she knew well.

Marching away from the river, she headed towards a sparsely tree-lined area. Though she was almost certain they were in this direction, she immediately froze. She could be headed towards any unknown person’s cattle.

She took a breath and slowed her steps, which gave Jon enough time to almost catch up with her.

He was fuming, causing her to grind her teeth, careful to not betray her array of bubbling feelings.

She looked through some foliage and saw the livestock waiting, wrapped to a tree. Feet lifting, she hurried towards them, sighing in relief that no one was around to hear Jon’s deathly voice ask, “Are you mad?!”

If she had been the girl she was years ago, she would have shrunk at his tone, but it was his words that caught her off guard. Her throat tightened.

A minuscule piece of her wanted to snap and nod her head, relishing in the eyes that would bulge from his skull. Instead, she bit her tongue and turned away from him.

In an equally low voice, she asked, “What happened?”

His dark eyes were blank, unmoving, unflinching. She watched as he just stared.

No response.

She removed the sack from around her shoulders and put it on a spotted mare, strapping it closer to its behind. She heard a frustrated sigh and repeated her question once more, her hands shaking with anger.

Still no response.

She untied the horses, leaving the lone one, hoping that the man makes it across the water, if not with Ser Davos, then at least alone. 

She asked Jon again before leaving the tree, looking to him, eyes hard as stone, with an expression she knows for certain he has never seen.

“You blacked out.” She froze. He pulled the ropes from her hands, starting on a halter. 

“What? How? What happened back there?” She tried to remember everything but all she remembered was a feeling of hotness and an all-consuming detachment she could not even place. And then nothing.

“You turned your back,” he spat. Her head snapped up. 

“Excuse me?” She was offended. 

“You turned your back! You never turn your back in battle.” He moved on to her horse, making a halter for her as well.

“I was not aware we were in battle,” she bit back, moving towards her horse, wanting to take the reins to do it herself. She did not desire any more help than necessary.

“We were with the enemy. Never ever turn your back.” His eyes were full of exhaustion and what she was just going to place as disappointment.

Finishing, as she neared him, he asked, “Can you ride bareback?” 

She scoffed, taking the reins and pushing his hands away from her, denying his offer to help her up. Rounding the mare, she stroked its hair before pulling herself up.

“You will have to until I can find a proper saddle,” he mumbled, watching her settle herself with ease, only the hood of her cloak falling. “Tie your hair back,” he ordered, voice softening. “None of this,” he grabbed a loose tendril from the hair cascading at her waist, swallowing. “Give me all of your valuables, the ones that you don’t mind me discarding.”

The man had said they keep nothing that could identify them, she remembered, unclipping her hair. She gave him her dragon clip, broach, necklace, and bracelet. Her red sash, she unclipped from her chain, which she also untied and placed in his hands.

She felt along her body for anything else Missandei might have clipped to her, afterwards only having her mother’s ring left. She gazed at the piece of jewelry. She had never parted with it since Viserys gave it to her. The crown knew of it; anyone else, perhaps not.

“Keep it,” Jon said quy, sadly, as she twirled it around her finger. Swallowing her emotions, she lifted her hands to her hair and started on a single braid down her back as Jon walked to his stallion, shoving her things into a bag. He rid himself of his armor and reversed his cloak, hiding the wolves carved into the leather.

Finishing her braid she watched him shift through another bag, pulling out a lighter colored cloak, and then walked back towards her. He placed it into her, now, free hands. “Here, put this on, tie it tight. Do not take it off. Keep your head down,” he spoke tersely. He took the end of the rope, leading her to his mount. 

"I can get on by myself," she called out to him, motioning towards the reign in her hands, realizing what he was doing. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. She refused to have him lead her.

He turned the ends of the rope back to her and instructed, “Follow me. Stay east, ride as hard as you can.”

She looked up to the sky, searching for the sunset with a somber heart. She turned in the opposite direction, not waiting for him, and rode.

 

 

***

 

 

The trees were scarce, which made traveling in the dark allowable. There were naught but open lands for miles. They had to have successfully navigated out of the crownlands and into the reach for the hours that they might have traveled.

Daenerys had no idea how long they had been riding. But they pushed the horses to all their might. Sun would come soon, she was sure of it as the air held the chill of dawn. 

Finally nearing some tree’s and coverage, Jon called out, “We will stop here for the remainder of the night.”

His eyes gave the area what had to be his tenth once over.

She hopped off her mare, wobbling slightly, hissing a bit at the burn that started between her legs. She did not miss this- the feeling of wind blowing in her face and the feeling of freedom that riding any animal brought, yes, but the pain of horseback, let alone bareback, was not something she longed for.

On the ride, she had played with her tether to Drogon, but she was met with a flat end. This had happened once before, in Meereen, when he dismissed himself from her. She hid her worry. The bindings of the tether had not stung in Essos as it did in The Pit.

She pushed away the welling of dread, telling herself if something had truly happened, she would know.

Looking up from tying her horse to a tree, she saw Jon laying out supplies. It was not a copious amount, but it was enough until they could, perhaps, find a market.

This was planned. She knew it was, but it did not stop her from opening her mouth.

“Tell me this was not planned.” To what extent was this thought of, she was not told. Her dragon. Her friends. Her soldiers. She knew nothing. And he had said little.

“What happened back there?” she strode towards him, ignoring the pain shooting up her legs. “Besides me blacking out.”

“I don’t know,” he looked down. His anger seemed to have entirely evaporated and replaced with his normal discontentment.

“Do not lie to me,” she seethed.

“I don’t know,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “That was not planned.” _The Pit._

“But this was? Jon.” She waved her hands over a tarp, presumably for a tent, some fabric, a few garments, bread, amongst other varied items.

“It was last minute,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“What?” she snapped.

“Lord Tyrion thought-” as soon as Jon uttered Tyrion, he realized he should not have, for his mouth snapped shut and he glanced away from the fury that resided in her gaze.

Daenerys’ cheeks flushed red with anger. “You and my Hand have been planning behind my back,” she let out a bitter laugh. Him and Jon Snow were friends. Keener than she presumed. Closer than she knew.

Mistrust flared within her violently as she stared down the brooding man she had been growing kind on. In the moment, it seemed as if all they had spoken on seemed to mean little to him, truly.

She wanted to walk away. Pull away. Go off on her own but she had no idea where she was going nor did she want to risk lives. Her life. His life. Their advisors’ lives. She felt helpless and weak. And he had the most understanding of the situation than anyone it looked. No matter her growing upset.

“It was last minute,” Jon repeated, lighting a candle. _What an odd thing to have packed_ , she thought despite her irritation. 

“You have been speaking to him a lot.” It was not quite a sneer, but Jon understood from the way the words slipped past her teeth that he should be minding his words.

“It happened last night. Honestly, last night,” his voice was a quiet request for her understanding. She willed herself not to soften at his tone and downcast eyes.

“Before or after you looked me in the eye and scolded me for-” she was cut off.

“He thought this might happen and he was right,” his voice was firm, laced with indignation.

“What happened?” Daenerys all but yelled. Her lack of recollection ate at her, her own mind betraying her.

“You turned your back,” he waved his arm towards her. “The big one, The Mountain, aimed straight for you when they saw Drogon.”

“I had my anger at bay-” she whispered, shaking her head. She could not understand. Her tether burned but she had not felt him angry enough to kill.

“Well, he must have known you were in danger, because,” Jon faltered, finally looking into her eyes. She was sure they must have contained pain. She looked to the ground. _One job._ “In the blink of an eye he was there. Missandei-”

Daenerys’ head pulled up to meet Jon’s. _The arm._ She felt an arm on her. Someone had pulled her.

“Missandei tugged you back and stood in front of you as he charged.”

She must have looked horrified, because Jon shook his head and reached out towards her, dropping the knives he had unloaded from his belt. The ones the man gave him.

“The unsullied commander got to her,” he rushed out. 

She let out a breath and sunk to the ground. “Good,” was all she said. Missandei would surely be safe.

“That is not _good_. He should have gone for you,” Jon spoke with venom. Jon sat back down, drawing back, picking one of the knives up, examining it.

“It does not matter,” she shook her head. 

“Yes, it does. That is his duty.” The knife in Jon’s hand clattered to the ground.

"Her life isn't more valuable than mine," she disagreed, scowling.

“Yes, it is.” Daenerys had never heard him speak this way before. It was alarming, provoking.

Her lips turned downwards as she twisted the ring around her finger. “If something happened to you, all of this is for nothing. This world remains shit. You are literally the most important person in the realm right now.”

She shook her head once more. “I do not believe that.”

Perhaps at one point she would have been inclined to agree but with the turn of recent events- she could not even manage her own advisors. Protect her own dragon. Do her duty. She was not even trusted enough to discuss this idea.

How was she important but not respected?

“That is humble. Honorable even. But that does not matter. You are. He went for her because he is love with her.”

His voice was unpleasant. He seemed angrier about her guard not reaching for her, rather than the actual events at The Pit. She had spoken about Grey Worm to him once or twice but not as transparently as Jon made it seem. She supposed the commander's feelings were obvious enough now. 

“I do not care that he did.”

“Does not change the fact that he still should have grabbed you.” Jon picked the knife out of the dirt and wrapped it up, packing it away.

He was not wrong, but she could not be bothered to be upset. If alive, he was most likely already troubled over it. “None of this answers the question as to how you and Tyrion did all of this behind my back,” she looked to him, distaste lacing through her features.

“You are not supposed to be here,” he admitted. His eyes finally darted away from her, standing up. He piled the wrapped knives next to where she supposed he was going to sleep. He reached into another sack, withdrawing the black cloak he might have wrapped her in earlier and offered it and two other pieces of fabric to her.

“There were three horses,” she commented pointing to where she had tied her mount. He motioned for her to wrap the shorter piece of cloth around her hair.

“Yes. Tyrion and I both sent a person we trust to set up a way to escape in case something happened to me.” She attempted to reach into her memory to all the people she had made eye contact with on her way to The Pit.

Only one came to mind. A stocky man with scars and brown leather jerkin. He seemed familiar to her and she could not place his name currently. “Why would he?”

“He knew that I could not lie if she asked me though he urged me to. I could not. And he knew that she would be upset.” _To stay out of their war._ It was not shocking in the least, she nodded.

“But if she did anything to you I would have-” she stopped herself but Jon caught on, looking up from where he laid down his fur.

“Tyrion does not know that. You are so close and I have bended the knee. You already have the North.” He balled it up and moved towards her, offering it to her as well. “You would not be stupid enough to risk that, would you?” His eyes searched hers and she steeled herself for the emotional intrusion he was attempting.

Walking away, he spoke, “He thought she may try something, so I sent-.”

“Gendry!” the name came to her. He was there from Eastwatch. He was with the wight and The Hound. The Hound was there. Gendry disappeared.

“You know Gendry?” he turned around, his eyes squinting.

“Yes, I- why do you have that face? Why? Who is he?” her suspicions revealed his fear. Trepidation flashed through his eyes, his body tense with worry. “Jon,” she cautioned.

He sighed, throwing his head back and admitted, “He is Robert Baratheon’s son.”

Daenerys slowly lifted her body from the ground, feeling entirely to small and inadequate from the grass. “Bastard son,” he emphasized, “It doesn’t matter.”

Her face became contrite. _Bastard_. A mixture of feeling swirled through her. Anger, at the secret he had been keeping for moons. Compassion, for the way his shoulders lowered as he spoke those words.

Jon was a bastard.

Jon was now a king.

“Does not matter?” her tone was soft, holding an incredulous edge. “You hid the usurper’s bastard son on my island. You disrespect me so.” She finally said it. It is how she felt. Absolutely insulted, after everything him and her advisors went through.

She held onto her softer feelings but pushed them further down into her stomach as he began to speak.

“No, I-” he stumbled over his words, raising his hands in defense. “Firstly, Davos brought him. He was in King’s Landing for the last few years, hiding under Cersei’s nose. But if she saw him…” Jon trailed off, watching the disbelief glide across her face.

“He apparently looks just like Robert Baratheon did when he was young. Secondly, I mean no disrespect, Your Grace, but what was I to do? He did not have say in his birth,” Jon continued with a frown.

He was not wrong. He did the right thing, she breathed in, her eyes closing. “That weakens my claim.”

“Nothing can weaken your claim,” she could hear the humor in his voice.

The only reason she knew he was in front of her was because every hair on her body stood up. She opened her eyes to him gazing, twirling the dragon clip she pulled from her hair earlier.

“He could not be seen by her, so he went with some fellow named Bronn, Tyrion’s mate, and did this. Him, Davos and I were supposed to ride north.”

The idea had merit, she could admit, had she been whisked away by her commanders, not him. She pondered the situation. Jon had been eyeing the exit and the Lannister Queen the entire seating. As soon the meeting ran further downhill, he could have made for his leave. Her and Jon had already agreed upon working together, prior, had Cersei done anything further unscrupulous, Daenerys would have intervened.

Perhaps removing Jon from the equation would have been the best option. For her feelings, that were unknown to Tyrion, by her knowledge, and for the betterment of the realm. Jon Snow’s death was highly unideal.

_But Tyrion did not know-_

They went for her, not the King.

The Usurper Queen did not anticipate hers and Jon’s alliance, her words. Cersei knew they would not think her to attack them. It was Jon, Tyrion thought his sister would go for Jon because it was the wisest. Drogon was never supposed to show.

It was supposed to be Jon.

“Without me? What happened to together?” she murmured, glancing up at him.

“The North is hostile,” he averted his gaze. “It may be best if I arrive first to ease tensions. I do not wish anything to happen to you.”

She swallowed the flutters that bubbled within her belly and squared her shoulders. He shook his head, turning away.

“I am never safe, Jon.” His name rolled off her tongue in a harsh whisper. “What do you all not understand? I will never be safe. You cannot shield me.”

He stiffened, not daring to look at her scrunched up face. Her entire life, she had been running. Running from someone or towards something. A dream. This goal. And every step of the way she was either taken, raped, beaten or shamed. The last time, she doubted had been the last time. She refused to run of her own accord, and leaving with Jon Snow, she was making that choice. Again.

“I can try.” His tone held finality. Though Jon normally held a sort of gloom in his voice, this time it held the same level of decisiveness it had before he left for Eastwatch. “I have to try,” he said lowly as an afterthought.

“At what cost? Your word?” she enquired with ridicule. “You lied.”

“It is not a lie, you are here.” He turned around, pointed to her and then him.

“It would have been.” Had she made her own decision.

“Nevertheless, it is not.”

Jon had moved towards his horse, untying him from so close to camp and moving it towards hers. There was a clear vantage point from where he set for them to rest. She moved to lay down, knowing he would not allow her first watch.

They were not entirely clear of the Crownlands or Crownland guards heading towards the Reach. Much less, thieves. She had wrapped herself in his cloak to mask the light chill the darkness provided and turned her back towards him and the candle he blew out.

 “All of them back there-” her voice trailed off.

“There was still a plan to get out. You must trust that it worked.” Daenerys could hear the weariness in his voice.

“We all agreed that Tyrion would be the least likely to make it out,” she continued, staring off into the distant darkness. Despite her antagonism, she still worried.

“He knows that. He is ready for that,” Jon cut out but continued quickly possibly noticing one of her hands clench, then unclench his cloak. “He is not conspiring against you.” His tone held disapproval.

“Excuse me for the thought to glance across my mind. He makes plans in which he knows he will be taken by his sister, to what?” Frustration spurred her words. “Never mind. When it is dark once more, I can attempt at calling for Drogon. We or I can fly back to Dragonstone.” That was probably where she was set to go back to anyway. He did not need her as a responsibility and that last thing any of them desired was for something unfortunate to happen to the both of them on the ride to Winterfell.

“She may try to shoot us down,” he offered tiredly. “It may be best to allow her to assume you are dead. Or perhaps that you have been hurt or that I’ve been hurt. Maybe she will be more inclined to listen to her brother.”

Turning her head, “This is what you and Tyrion discuss.”

“Yes.” It was not a question though he answered it as one. “Amongst other things. Let us just go according to plan for once.”

 _The plan,_ “Without my knowledge.”

“Like I said beforehand, it was more for me than it was to undermine you,” he sighed. “You really should not be here.” She turned back around, laying her head on what she pretended to be a pillow. “It is not safe.”

“So how would she have listened,” she enquired once more. “If I would have left with my commanders or dragons.”

Not that it mattered now but it was curious what Jon Snow and her Lord Hand would come up with.

“She would most likely still have him. I would have disappeared.” She waited for more trying to make sense of it all, but not much more slipped from his lips. Surely, they did not leave it at that. It could not have been _that_ last minute.

Sensing her inquisitiveness, he asked, “What would you have done?” assuming she would not have the answer.

It was not in any of the contingencies she had spent numerous hours memorizing.

“Waited, right?” Now he paused for any response she could have mustered up. Daenerys held her tongue. “Would you have let him die?”

“He would not have.” The tired response fell from her lips. It was what they said days ago, weeks ago, a night ago. This morning even. He would be least likely to die but most certain to be taken.

“Exactly,” he agreed, softly. “Allow him his time.” 

There was a light ruffling around in the silence that followed them next. Sleep evaded, she told him, “I would have gone north. And waited.”

“I know.” She was certain he was smiling.

 

 

***

 

_Night 2_

 

Daenerys had her first nightmare for she dreamt of three tens and a night that never seemed to end.

 

 

***

 

 

The Queen was not the only one to struggle with sleep. For several nights, she awoke to a restless Jon Snow, tossing and turning on the ground across from her. Or, in times like this, an irritated one.

“What are you doing?” her sleep ridden voice was raspy. There had been a lot of scuffling about. At first, she froze, hearing for a struggle. Only huffs.

She rolled over, rubbing her eyes, adjusting to the grey darkness. He only had that single candle lit beside him. He apologized, noticing her awakening figure. “Removing the harness.” His voice was gruff.

It was not a chilly night so she returned his cloak. Now he was fussing with it. “You look angry,” she commented. _Perhaps, he wants to discuss it._

She waited for him to say anything. _Maybe not._ His eyes were downcast, tired. She tried to coax him into sleeping but he refused. _I dragged you with me, you take first rest,_ he said to her while unpacking their horses. She flooded with shame at how furious she had gotten with him. He hardly wanted any of this to happen either.

“Remove it gently, you will ruin the whole thing,” Daenerys said as she reached over towards his hand, stopping his harsh tug on the leathers of his cloak. They were shaking.

He was pale. And she was frightened.

He grasped her palms, dropping his knife to his lap, “My sister gifted it to me.” Daenerys finally looked into his eyes. “She may have my head,” he said with a grim smile.

“If you cut it off better than that, I can stitch it back on when we get north,” Daenerys said with a shake of her head, placing the knife back into his hand, tucking the leather strap around the other.

“She won’t even notice,” her voice was light, though his eyes haunted her.

When Jon spoke, it was not of his cloak.

“She will.”

 

 

***

 

 

Morning came and went. The day followed and it was a dreary one. Jon scoped out the area as sleep would not take him.

They were to move out when the fog had passed enough for them to see through the trees. Ride through that and through the rocky terrain Jon promised would appear. Night might come faster than they needed, but it would provide them enough cover to sweep the flat terrain quickly and without notice.

“I told Tyrion to give me no more than a moon to get to Winterfell.”

They did not exchange many more words. Daenerys wondered if it was out of guilt of hiding this from her, shame in the tension that was no longer due to mistrust or stress of what was to come

“And then what?” she had been scared to ask. _What next?_ Uncertainty plagued her though Jon seemed to have everything perfectly grasped. Her mind went to her people. Most of Jon’s being cared for by his siblings, hers were in the hands of her commanders she was not certain to still be alive.

 

 

***

 

 

_Day 6_

 

“Here.” Jon stepped in front of her, two books in his hands, one small and the other a bit bigger.

“What is this?” she eyed him, turning back to her boot at his harsh intrusion.

“Books.”

She lifted her head, throwing him a look of disdain. “About?” she rolled her eyes.

Jon shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest clue.”

She squinted at him while hurrying to lace her other boot. “Sam gave it to me to read for the ship ride to King’s Landing.” He waved the book at her, impatiently.

She snatched them from his hands, placing them on the grass beside her. “Gendry must have found it with my belongings, stuffed at the bottom of one of the sacks.”

Daenerys waited for him to explain why this was important to her.

“You look bored.”

 _Oh._ Her mind blanked momentarily. “I was thinking,” she sputtered. And she was. About her dragons. Her tether seemed to go dead for she reached out, searching for her children but she found nothing but an icy feeling located in the depths of her stomach.

She would certainly take the sting over this unresponsiveness.

Daenerys had thought about praying once or twice and quickly dismissed it. _If_ there was a god, who was he to listen to her?

“Aye. I will leave you to it then.” He nodded a few times before turning from her.

“Wait,” she called quickly. He stopped.

She smirked. “Why are you not reading them?”

He shrugged once more, tossing her a quick look. “Figured you may enjoy them more.”

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys awoke another night, a particularly foggy night to the smell of fire burning. Her body seemed to hum in contentment until she noticed that Jon was burning their belongings.

_Discard anything anyone can use to identify you both._

She sucked in a breath as he threw all her dragon shaped jewelry into the fire. Missandei had gifted it to her one morning, excitedly. She had others, but it was personal nonetheless, and expensive. _What a waste_ , she thought.

She swallowed sadness. The amount of money those items were worth could have made a working family rich.

She wished they could have buried it, but freshly moved grass could be suspicious and they had no shovel. And they could neither sell it nor give it away without revealing who they were.

She sighed as she watched him dump his armor and a few other things she could not place with the lack of light.

He looked to her finally as he unsheathed his sword. _The pommel._

“Keep it,” she called out quietly, twisting the ring on her finger.

He stared for a few moments, head turning from her, to the sword, and back again.

He shook his head, sheathing the blade.

She thought to that night he looked upset. _He was going to burn the leather with the wolves on it._ They could hide that well enough.

He was smart. It was a perfect night to burn their possessions. They were some time away from the first town, the mist gave them just enough cover and rain would fall soon, ridding the air of the smell.

Jon looked to her with a somber face. They were just things, trivial belongings, but they were still things that they had worked for. That others could have benefited from.

Emptiness still flooded her as she watched the fire burn.

The hum was gone. The warmth, it meant little now.

They were just things.

 

 

***

 

 

“That was a good speech you made.” Another day passed in the Reach, closing in towards a town.

They were sitting surrounded by a small fire she started from the branches Jon tossed down.

“I make them often,” she remarked, not caring how proud it sounded.

She played with one of the sticks, placing small pieces of hard bread on the edge to warm it up. “I do not think you to be mad.” She stopped twirling her stick, not bothering to glance at him. His stare was already boring wholes into her flesh. She needn’t see the look in his eyes to know that it held honesty. “I apologize,” he spoke softly.

She supposed this was to be the beginning of their acceptance of the truth of their situation. Of their duties. Of each other. Of them. And it terrified her.

“You just met me, Jon Snow.” It was not entirely a lie. “You hardly know me.” That was. “There is a fine line between madness and sanity.” She pulled the bread from the fire, blowing the flame away and pulling at the seared piece of dough, plopping into her mouth gracefully.

 

 

***

 

 

“A silver dragon for your thoughts?” Daenerys had skirted toward the crouched northern man, her voice husky from sleep.

She could admit to being a proper arse to him, but it was wholly unnecessary for he was in the wrong too, she decided. But, the silence, it seemed to stretch and the longer they went without speaking, the more uncomfortable the air became.

“With respect, my Queen,” he looked to her, eyes solemn but dark as they fixed themselves upon her rumpled wear. “I do not suppose you actually want to know what I'm thinking.”

This was the first moment since they began their journey that Daenerys felt desire floor her. She swallowed the lump that unexpectedly appeared in her throat, feeling that warm sensation float through her as his dark irises swiftly darted along her form.

They had come to a bitter agreement that she was to stay with their packed belongings and cattle the night prior, before they, well, she slept. Jon would have to quickly dart into a town to purchase appropriate necessities before dawn; she would give them away if she could not blend in appropriately. It was not an easy decision, for he was conflicted about her safety. It was a risk but a necessary one, she had decided for them knowing she did not crave to hide in bushes the entire way north.

Turning from her, Jon returned to stuffing one of the sacks for they had finally arrived at the outskirts of a seemingly safe, small but dense market town in the Reach.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up Next  
> "The cold air crept upon them this night. Jon had not anticipated it as he curled into his light cloak.
> 
> The air had not really bothered him so much as her piercing stare did. The lemon cakes seemed to have shift them past their mild hostility and her into this annoying mocking. “Are you really going to sleep all the way over there?”
> 
> Ignoring her, he curled further into his cloak, acting as if it were a barrier that would protect him from her and the air for he had also decided to steer clear of a fire this night. He had an odd feeling as of late and resolved to keep low. “We have already lain together,” she called out, making him shift."
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> LOL What is sleep?! I have to be up in three hours for class yay xD I haven't read this through yet since it was returned to me so excuse me, I'll do it on the train in the morning. I just really wanted to get this up.  
> But sorry y'all, if you guys are still here! I got a beta though! 
> 
> Honorable mentions to Iane_Casey who has been happily putting up with my bullshit for the last week or two and catching my mistakes, oh god it is embarrassing but she is brilliant and quick and saving my ass <3 Thank you girl <333 And y'all send her your prayers because I am not walk in the park and this could have been up wayyyyy later if not for her.
> 
> Sorry for the wait though, it took me longer than usual to finish the last chapter of this part because I had a few anxiety attacks from my course load. It is, indeed, hard to crack out 40k words with 7 college classes, I have found.
> 
> Also, I will reply to your comments soon. I have not responded to everyone but I will! I just need to do a mood board for my design class and then I'll get back to y'all. I will also like to inform you that I will be switching some of the tags up next chapter, I do write angst and not much fluff, if any at all. I don't want to mislead you into thinking this story will not be pulling teeth and yelling at the characters through the screen because it is. I like satisfying and non painful endings but still mildly realistic for the universe so, yeah. I will also be adding a few more side ships and as I get further into this part, for sure.
> 
> I also would like to highlight, there have been some things happening within the jonerys fandom and I want my fic comments, no matter what happens in the story to be a safe, inspiring and a helpful place. I have seen a lot of disrespect towards a lot of fanfic writers recently and I can take criticism but I do feel it is important for me to point out that there is a line that is not to be crossed, here or anywhere. If you do not like the fic (any fic), you may exit or perhaps stay but do not comment saying something hurtful or try to change the vision (some of us take requests but at the end of the day, if you want a certain thing done, you may write it or ask a writer you like to write it). I have seen a lot of stories get abandoned because of this and that is very bothersome, so please, be kind to not only me but my fellow writers. We live for the support and the helpful tips.
> 
> But yeah, please comment. I got a few wows in the comments. I like those! If you don’t feel like writing or even commenting that much, drop a "wow"!  
> It could be good or it can be bad so it works for everyone. And I fuck with that ambiguity <3
> 
> ETA: LMFAO some of y'all are confused so let's play a game! What do y'all think happened in The Pit because Jon only knows what he said, Dany doesn't know shit and everyone else, welp. So who do you think knows? What do you think happened? Give me your theories until we unravel the mystery of The Pit!


	6. Come Along, Jon Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you really going to sleep all the way over there?”
> 
> Ignoring her, he curled further into his cloak, acting as if it were a barrier that would protect him from her and the air for he had also decided to steer clear of fire that night. He had an odd feeling as of late and resolved to keep low. “We have already lain together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta, Iane-Casey, who only gives me her two cents even though I want a whole dollar lolols
> 
> Please enjoy <3

_Part II_

 

 

It was a quiet day in the Reach. Finally, it felt like what all the books had described.

Neither Jon nor Daenerys entirely understood the happenings at the Pit, which had been the reason for the staleness in the air. After days of travel, they both came to the conclusion that information would trickle down to the common folk soon enough, so they had to press on quickly.

Daenerys had left out the fear of her tether with Drogon breaking from their conversations.

They had walked on eggshells around each other for the first week, a bitter disdain encompassing them, nervous of their proximity and neither wanting to admit that the latter was secretly thrilling.

The second week was entirely different because of their growing routine.

Jon had gone off to purchase proper southern attire, saddles and better smallclothes, much to his embarrassment, in a less prominent northern accent.

In his absence, Daenerys had washed up with water and a cloth she made from taking the knife Gendry had placed in her palm, which she would not part herself from, to one of the sheets. She had noticed blood between her thighs while she cleaned and resolved that bareback was the form of transportation in all the seven hells.

When he had returned, she changed into a simple peasant dress with laces down the front and back. It was awful, ugly, scratchy and brown, which seemed to be the color of the south; brown, reds and golds, and dusty colors.

She looked at it with a frown before hiking up her breeches, so they would not show if her dress blew in an odd fashion. It reminded her of her youth.

Jon on the other hand, looked well, and not all that different, only less expensive and less armed. He donned a brown jerkin and kept his tunic and trousers. He seemed to have sold his finely-made leather boots and settled for something of lesser but still practical quality.

When in town, she surveyed as much as she could with her head down, pretending to be a docile woman.

Just as Tyrion was loth to do, Jon had given her a lecture about covering her hair entirely with a shaggy, brown hat and a scarf, and to keep her eyes downcast. He had told her that if someone were to ask questions, to say she had Old-Valyrian blood somewhere in her lineage. If they were stubborn, he had told her to say she was a bastard as well, but with the look she had given him, he understood he was pushing his luck.

“You like those?” He could be as silent as feline when he desired.

Jumping slightly at him sneaking up on her, she asked quietly, “Lemon cakes?”

He nodded with a grimace. She didn’t even notice she’d wandered to the cart. One second she had been watching him and all his narrowing looks, or rather, looks of suspicion, and the next, she was by a stand full of pastries.

“Why the face?” She shook her head frantically at the woman offering her one.

“They taste awful,” Jon remarked, not seeing Daenerys’ offended face as he turned away.

“They do not,” she whispered furiously, trailing after him.

 

 

***

 

 

The Great Hall was heavy with silence and tension.

Sansa could feel Arya’s hostility to the northern lords breach an uncomfortable level. Though she knew that Arya being in the meeting may not be the wisest idea, it showed trust. And it made her feel safer, perhaps. Familiar, maybe. 

Little snow had fallen in the last few days, much to her dismay. Just as she had told Podrick, the lords and ladies arrived promptly, awaiting new word. She had none. 

She released a tired sigh, never moving her stare from the men, Lady Mormont, and Lady Karstark, in front of her. It was the look of blankness she borrowed from Bran who seemed just as imperturbable as ever.

“Is there any word from your brother, my Lady?” Lord Royce enquired.

Assuring herself that her voice would not waver, she responded, “No.” They knew there was no word. There had not been word in weeks.

“King’s Landing?” he continued.

“No,” she stated in a clipped tone.

“Dragonstone?”

“No,” she ground out.

Arya shifted. Sansa could hear the calming breath she took. Her sister’s tolerance was not at its peak.

“Anyone?” It was Lord Glover, now. 

Neither was hers. “No,” she bit back nasty retorts, hanging on to what little patience remained. 

In retrospect, she could have possibly been kinder, but her easiness had gone utterly dry. All she could think of was how she should have persisted in her effort to stop her brother from leaving. 

She could have handled the situation better, but that would have been taking a level of control in which Arya had expressed discomfort on and Sansa, herself, would not allow for it would be in the utmost disrespect to their brother- _when he returns_ , she thought.

“At least allow us to send-” Lord Royce reasoned, but she cut him off.

“No, I will not trust any notice that is not sealed by my brother.” _Or Brienne, wherever she may be._

Her eyes flickered to Podrick’s uncomfortable ones in the back as Lord Glover said. “My Lady, perhaps we should start thinking of our next move in the event that your brother does not return.”

“He _will_ return.” She prayed to any gods that her voice did not falter. If she did not believe, they would not either.

“You cannot know that. Starks have a difficult time returning from the south,” Lord Glover grunted out, his lips curled. 

Sansa swallowed her feelings, gritting her teeth. She could understand the apprehension, but there was nothing she could do.

She sealed her lips about her contact with the new Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, choosing to not relay information on the frequency of the wight sightings. He had urged her to have a little more faith. 

She would give it another moon before she attempted further contact south and send more men north.

“ _We_ did.” Her head snapped towards Arya. 

They had had an agreement on her attendance to council gatherings. Her sister had decided that only family was to be trusted until she understood the intentions of the northern lords. It had made her laugh. Before she could stop herself, she had told Arya that she sounded like their father.

They had both tensed and she agreed that she would alert her of every meeting. She was not sure if she regretted it as Arya’s face was not entirely pleasant.

“He will return.” Bran spoke, shocking everyone including herself. Relief swarmed her. “And Jon’s last name is not Stark.”

“Is that all?” she fixed her face back to its former stoicism.

“Yes, Lady Stark.” They all seemed to agree, rising to bow, some with displeasure.

As the room cleared out, she turned to Arya, who stood, contemplating formalities before nodding to her, understanding her job. Though she was helping, she still rolled her eyes at her sister’s cheek. She rarely bowed to her and almost never called her Lady Stark, despite her insistence.

Her eyes trailed after her sister’s slender but now womanly body. She seemed to slip soundlessly between several figures and guards that were slow to leave.

Swallowing her uneasiness, she surveyed the room and saw only Podrick and two remaining guards Jon had said to keep close. She turned to her brother and said, “Thank you, Bran.” Her voice was soft but contained a terse edge.

She was somewhat mystified that they seemed to calm at Bran’s command now. She tried to remind herself it could all be due to the trial and the part he seemed to play well. A crone of sorts. Instead of a wise woman, he was a wise man.

“I said nothing that was not true. He will return.” His eyes were blank.

Since Bran had returned, she had only once let her emotions get the best of her, but currently, her fear was creeping through. “Are you not frightened? He is your brother.”

She had been having more of a difficult time with him compared to Arya. Her sister seemed to find ways to pierce his stony exterior, speaking of stories he decided to share on the days they would slip to the godswood to exchange private words.

She, however, could not reach him. She hardly wanted to after her first attempt. But he proved to be more than helpful, and had shown attentiveness today. 

He said nothing now, his eyes dull.

She lost him. 

“Bran? Are you even in there?” her voice became frantic, and enough for her to hear Podrick’s clumsy footsteps come closer. Something seemed to have caught in her throat.

“Everyone is in here, Sansa. That is the problem.”

 

 

***

 

 

A small package was dropped in front of her, disturbing her from one of the books Jon had given. 

Jon had once again reluctantly left her by herself, to hurry back into town to procure something or the other. The look on his face had forbidden her to question him at the time.

She peered up, face scrunched. “What is this?”

It had not been long since he left, but his eyes seemed to be wary despite the small smile that tugged at his lips.

Narrowing her own eyes, she closed the book, placing it on the grass beside her where she had kept her knife. She reached for the bundle, feeling its warmth. As she brought it closer, the smell of tartness wafted to her nose, and her lips tugged up into a grin.

Tearing at the package that contained the little yellow cakes, she looked at him, light in her eyes, but then frowned. “You did not need to waste coins on this.” Emotion welled in her throat.

“Do you not want them?” Jon asked, reaching to grab them away, but she smacked at his hand, pulling them to herself. His lips stretched slightly, satisfied with the eagerness she had tried but failed at hiding. 

Of course, she wanted them. She stared at the three sweets in her hands.

“My sister liked them as well.”

Her head snapped up, eyeing him, “We are not taking them up north, are we?” After the inquiry slipped past her tongue, she realized how foolish it sounded. They had just entered a little under two weeks and Daenerys thought that she must have been losing her mind.

 _It is the stress_ , she shook her head before looking at the amused king.

“No,” he laughed, sitting across from her, “They would never last.”

Her head turned to the pastries, desiring to stuff them into her mouth, but instead she felt oddly self-conscious. They had been eating bread and dried meat for a week and a half and she did not want him to see how happy she was at the treats. She could not deny to herself how much she had grown accustomed to a finer life.

“Eat them,” he watched her.

She picked up a lemon cake carefully, feeling the spongey texture between her teeth, knowing his gaze was on her. “Thank you,” she hummed, closing her eyes before shoving the remaining half past her lips.

Feeling Jon’s scrutiny on her, she peeked at him, seeing his lips curled in disgust. “Why do you hate them?” she asked.

“I don’t like the taste,” he responded, like it was the most obvious answer.

“Maybe it’s the way they were made,” she offered, swirling the white glaze with her fingers. “These do look a bit different from the ones across the narrow sea.”

“Are they alright?” he questioned, his eyebrows scrunching up, watching the cakes with almost amusing distaste.

“Yes,” she stated, disgruntled at his glowering.

They looked different, sure, but they did not taste bad in the least. The lemon flavor snuck up on her, less like the ones in Essos, where she could taste the tartness immediately. “I love lemon.”

“They are a rarity in the north, so get them while you can, down here,” he patted her leg, standing up. She eyed the spot his hand had grazed. He was surely making an effort to not be so difficult.

Squinting towards his back, curiously, she asked, “How does Lady Sansa love them then?” _If they were so uncommon._

“Big feasts. Special occasions. Name day celebrations,” he turned back around. “Lady Stark would have them imported or traded,” he waved his hand in a ‘here’ or ‘there’ motion.

“It started when she was little. I was probably 6 years when she reached across the high table at a feast Lady Stark threw for- I do not actually remember.” His eyes tensed. “But I do remember Sansa stretched across the tabletop, knocking down several wine glasses, all over Lady Stark too-”

“Is that why you remember?” Daenerys raised her eyebrows in response to the tugging at his lips.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, eyes troubled. “She just grabbed one of the yellow cakes and stuffed the whole thing in her mouth.”

Biting at her lips and lowering her head down to stare at the pastry, she restrained herself from doing the same.

“She always had a big mouth. Got that sticky stuff everywhere,” his lips formed a grimace again. “I remember my father laughed so hard, I swear he started cryin’. She was always the center of attention.”

Observing the shift of revulsion to happiness to resentment, she noted, “You say that with a frown but your eyes shine with fondness.”

“It was just a good time, is all,” he ducked his head and turned from her.

Daenerys watched the tension form at his shoulders as he walked towards the horses. Sighing, she wrapped up her dessert and stuffed them into the sack along with the book, hoping they would not crumble too much.

As she neared him he began to speak again. “I recall my brother, Theon and I pissing her off so bad one year, Robb begged his mother for lemon cakes.” 

“When that did not work, we bribed Arya too. Theon begged for them as well, and taught my littlest brother, Rickon, to say lemon,” he shook his head, huffing out a laugh.

She was certain she heard somewhere that the Greyjoy boy was a Stark ward but she had not realized how close they had been.

Pausing from strapping their items to the horses, he continued somberly, “I took Bran to a secret spot where he could practice climbing without getting into trouble so he could tell his mum that he wanted them also. She could not say no to getting them a special treat for a supper that month.”

She could see sadness in his eyes now as he spoke, but his lips were still curled upwards. Placing a hand on his shoulder, his gaze met hers. He exhaled miserably.

He took the sack she held, walked over to her mare, and then strapped the sack to it as well. An apprehensive silence followed them as she stepped over and mounted her mare with ease.

It was not until he galloped past her that she called out, curious, “What did you bribe Lady Arya with?”

His pace slowed to an easy trot. “Told her we’d teach her how to wrestle.” A lazy smile graced his face before he started to spur his mount into a gallop.

“One moment,” she halted him, “What did you do to Lady Sansa?”

Jon grinned before looking down. “Switched out her hair and skin oil for some sticky solution,” he started. “We thought it to be grease and that she would not notice-” he squinted. “It was not and she did.”

His horse trotted around hers, as it normally did, never fond of staying still.

“What did you lot need her oils for?” she asked, brows furrowed.

Jon’s eyes squinted once more, sizing her up, before his face stretched into a cryptic smirk.

 

 

***

 

 

The cold air crept upon them that night. Jon had not anticipated it as he curled into his light cloak. 

The air had not really bothered him so much as her piercing stare did. The lemon cakes seemed to have shifted them past their mild hostility and into annoying mocking.

“Are you really going to sleep all the way over there?”

Ignoring her, he curled further into his cloak, acting as if it were a barrier that would protect him from her and the air for he had also decided to steer clear of fire that night. He had an odd feeling as of late and resolved to keep low. “We have already lain together,” she called out, making him shift uncomfortably.

He endeavored to forget about it.

This entire voyage would kill him, he thought to himself.

She had absolutely no shame; taunted him endlessly.

Her shifting moods, perhaps, was his doing. Getting a rile out of her seemed to entertain him.

“I will not do anything unless you desire it.” They seemed to have that in common.

Rubbing his forehead, he frowned, “That is the problem, Your Grace.” He would do well to remind her of who she is— who _he_ is— and where they were, since she seemed to have forgotten. _He_ seemed to have forgotten.

“Are we back to this?” she asked agitatedly. “Just come here, Jon. Or I will give the blankets to the horses. It is not fair.”

There had been no point in denying himself but Jon did it, nevertheless. Perhaps he was a masochist. Perhaps his insecurities ran deeper than he thought. Perhaps his mind and his desire liked playing tug-of-war.

Desire won, at least this time.

He could have said that he was fine. He was accustomed to the chill. He could have gotten her to let it go, though she would have most likely let go of their tarps as well.

Sighing, he stood and walked closer to her small figure and tugged the covers from behind her for him to lay. Gathering his nerves that should have disappeared by now, he moved down to position himself with a modest amount of space between them.

She disregarded it.

He gritted his teeth and huffed as she shifted towards him.

He very well would have told her to fuck off, but that would only encourage her more at that point. She seemed to appreciate his discomfort, judging by the light chuckle that escaped her lips.

Shaking his head, Jon turned to his back before she could press her ass to him and feign innocence.

The sky was black instead of grey and they were secluded at the foot of a hill. Glancing at her from the corner of his eye, he realized he had not seen the silver of her hair in days.

He squinted to adjust to the dark. _Sod it_. He turned to her once more before gathering her to him, disregarding rationality.

Certain she was still awake, he whispered, “Thank you for defending my honor at The Pit.”

 

 

***

 

 

“You hold that pretty tight?” Jon called out to her one morning, dusting his palms clean of dirt. 

They took to rotating handling horse duties as they were riding them quite hard against unusual terrain. While he tended to the cattle she either read or toyed with knives.

Gendry’s words had stayed with her, _not a journey for a woman_. She had felt as if it was him saying that women were weak, but the longer she thought about it, and after surveying the townsfolk, she realized that traveling would prove to be immeasurably unsafe, more so than she had originally thought. Even as a seemingly peculiar but unassuming female, men in odd corners would still leer at her if she even stepped more than five feet away from Jon.

She did not tell him that, however, only hurried back to him, which made her grit her teeth. She did not like the feeling of weakness.

Jon had been acting peculiar lately as well. She had started noticing that their course was changed frequently. When she had questioned his ability to read a map, he tossed her a bothered look.

They were behind on time. They should have been in the Riverlands by now or at least closer. May haps, even past it, if they rode as hard as her army did.

It began to put her on edge. 

While he did such weird things, she absentmindedly started practicing throwing the knife Gendry had given her. It was truly remarkable work.

Jon had mentioned that he was a blacksmith, and according to Ser Davos, a brilliant one.

It showed.

“You know how to use it?” Jon asked her with a tilt of his head.

She did not. “I understand that the sharp side should go into the other person.”

He snorted out a laugh. “You should know how to use it.”

The pride that seemed to rise in his face at the prospect of her with a weapon only furthered her inner thought to ask Ser Jorah to give her lessons. She kept them deeply tucked in the back of her head, though. _He could be dead_. She pushed the nagging voice away in her mind, and the guilt sloshing in her stomach far away.

He had been clever in finding ways to escape unfortunate situations and he would be gentle with her unlike the Dothraki. She had pictured commanding Qhono to show her how to fight and the end result would probably be most unfortunate. She had thought of Grey Worm, but he would grow frustrated with her and she would notice him attempting to hide it, which would dishearten her. Grey Worm would be a good person to train with after she knew how to properly wield any form of weapon. 

He started towards her, holding out his hands. “I can teach you,” he beckoned for the weapon.

“Can you?” she questioned, sarcasm dripping from her tongue. She was sure he had the patience of the Unsullied Commander. 

“Aye.” Her tone seemed to have gone unnoticed.

“If you hold it like that-” he slapped the blade out of her palm. “It can be slipped from your grip.” He seemed to catch it easily, the handle landing perfectly between his fingers.

She glared, not ready for his demonstration. “Give it here,” she motioned for it.

Looking at her expression, he winced slightly, passing it over. “You going to stab me now?”

She had decided a long while ago that it was best not to bring it up if he did not. “It is not too soon for those jokes?” she remarked. She did crave to know what had happened, when it had happened, so much so that she had considered ordering Missandei to find out. But no, she did not want that story from the mouths of others. She desired his trust. She wanted him to tell her the event in which “he took a knife for his people.”

Turning back to throw the knife at a tree, her aim was good, she decided.

“Perhaps.”

 

 

***

 

 

 

It was a relatively bright day but they could not afford to stop moving. They had spent too much time dawdling the previous days.

Daenerys’ legs and stomach have begun throbbing in the most uncomfortable ways, despite the new saddle on her mare. He had noticed and took pity on her, slowing their pace through a rocky stream.

If he was in pain as well, he did not show it.

She made a vow after the first week that she would ride more often after the war. She was a Khaleesi. She could not let a northerner outride her.

He smiled, trotting on his horse, as if he could hear her thoughts. He looked rather boyish for a moment.

It made her feel like they were their true age.

She hid the tug at her lips before saying, “I wish I had experiences like you had.” Her mare swayed a bit, pulling closer to his. “With my siblings,” she added.

“The fondest experience I had with my brother was when he gave me this ring.” She held up her hand. “It is my mother’s. The only thing I know that remains of her personal items.”

She caught him frown. He said nothing, however.

Lowering her head a little, she leaned into her horse, keeping up with the trot, and swallowed her frankness. Perhaps she had opened up too much, because he suddenly seemed too aloof for her taste.

Mildly disgruntled, Daenerys rolled her eyes at his lack of responsiveness. _Jon Snow in all his glory._ She kicked her horse to a gallop after successfully navigating the creek. She could feel the light speckles of water on her thighs as her horse moved faster.

She pushed away the pain and tried to relish the feeling of the wind blowing onto her face, swallowing the disappointment in being unable to remove her scarf.

She tried to envision it was Drogon that she had mounted, even feeling for him.

_Nothing._

She hid the worry well. Jon had not speculated about her bond with her dragons, hadn’t even asked about them yet. She had not wanted to bring it up, but the feeling of dread gnawed at her insides.

Her horse lost momentum and decided to slow in pace, much to her dismay.

“I am sorry.” Jon’s voice came from behind her. He was awful with sincerity as of late.

They had been close, too close for his fragile virtue, it seemed.

Daenerys eyed him from her still mount which was relieving herself.

She tilted her head towards Jon as he continued his trot around hers.

“You and Tyrion, you both have all of these experiences with your families-” she shook her head, after seeing a look of apprehension.

“They aren’t all good.”

“But more good than they were bad.” He frowned at her. “Worth it, I mean.” She swayed as her mare moved abruptly. “I hardly have three.”

She looked at him regretfully. “I am sorry I kept you so long from them, from her.”

Bitterness welled inside her. 

“Sansa?” he pulled up to keep pace with her instead.

“Yes-” she said softly, then stopping herself from rattling off. “I have no idea what it’s like to have a family, let alone one to return to. All I have are my dragons, really.”

“No,” he shook his head. “You don’t.”

She blinked a few times, watching him, deciphering what he meant. _No, she did not have her dragons only, or no, she did not understand?_

Clearing his throat, Jon revealed, “We did not always get along. We hated each other,” he paused before clarifying, “Well, she never liked me and I returned the favor.”

Interested, she asked why.

“I think it was more Lady Stark than her own opinions,” he shrugged.

“I’m sorry.” She felt angry from his revelation, not bothering to look for her compassion. Perhaps she would seek it out on a different moon.

She could not imagine hating a child that much. Even Gendry, a grown man. Her fury dissipated rather fast when Jon had mentioned he hadn’t a choice in his birth, reminding her of that important truth.

She wanted to ask if the late Lady Stark also hated her husband, but she kept that to herself as he spoke.

“Don’t be,” he mumbled. “We’re fine now. She’s not so bad.” His head swayed as he made a face. 

“Why did you not attempt to get her to like you?”

Daenerys had tried everything in her power to curb Viserys’ anger and be the perfect sister. Had he been kinder, or lived a less cruel life, perhaps it would have worked.

She at least liked to hope.

“I did not feel I should have had to,” his face contorted. “She seemed to have made up her mind.”

His voice became gruff when he said, “She also wasn’t like Arya. All she spoke of were princes and knights, stitching and dresses.” Jon rolled his eyes, pulling on the reigns of his horse that seemed to tense up with him.

“I thought it was stupid. I thought _she_ was stupid,” he admitted.

She could have argued that there was nothing wrong with those things. She, herself, had spoken to enough lengths with Missandei about _him_. There was always a time and place for talk of frivolity, that even she enjoyed. And sewing, sewing was a useful talent and could be used as a soothing diversion, and hobbies kept people sane. But she deemed now was not the moment as her interest was thoroughly piqued, far more so than her intense yearn to open his mind further.

“She isn’t like that, now?”

Daenerys would lie if her Lord Hand questioned her motives for speaking to Jon Snow, as her interest in his life was no longer tact. She genuinely enjoyed his never-ending tales.

“No, she is quite skeptical and unforgiving, but she is my sister,” his voice seemed to grow tired. “When I saw her at Castle Black, I had not been that happy in a long time.”

His reluctance to admit that easily reflected on his face. “What was that like?” she probed.

“The one of few women to grace the Wall?” he looked to her with wide eyes, questioning her. “Scary,” his lips pressed firmly together, his hands tightening against the harness.

“You could say she is striking. Red hair and blue eyes. Every man looked at her.” Jon’s head shook. “I wanted to kill them all. Anyone that lays a hand on them, my family, my sisters.

She, I know, has been through-” He halted his horse and looked at her.

Daenerys nodded, not needing him to continue. She understood.

“I would do anything for her.” Their horses were moving side by side as Jon resumed movement.

“You would not have before?” Daenerys asked softly.

“Aye, but with protest.”

 

 

***

 

 

They were nearing High Heart. Jon had been reluctant to stay too close, hearing from villagers that it was said to be haunted.

Daenerys had laughed and called him a child, taunting him on his ability to face ice monsters and battle great warriors, but easily frightened of tall tales and ghosts.

“ _You_ are a tall tale,” he grumbled, “And your dragons were thought to be myth.”

She had rolled her eyes as they settled in the vicinity to make camp.

They were to cross the King’s Road soon. They had to be swift and stealthy, to not alert any of those loyal to the pretender queen.

Jon had been grumbling about, complaining about wanting to continue movement, as they were too close to Harrenhal for his liking, but it was already too late. She attempted to remind him that they were technically in loyal territory.

“Loyalty is mercurial these days.”

She agreed, but decided not to add to his stress as she moved to wash their belongings.

Jon Snow was good at many things. What most men deemed “woman’s work” was not one of them, unsurprisingly. He did try, however, ringing and shaking out their undergarments, laying them on a low branch. When she thought that he would stalk away, leaving her to do the rest, he did not, waiting for her with his own back turned to her to clean up as well.

This had become routine work as well. After his initial embarrassment, he resumed position every time they rested. She would clean up and he would either stare blankly in another direction or start at a fire near her for camp.

Today, he stared blankly ahead in discomfort that no longer came from their informality and proximity.

Swallowing, she worried. But Daenerys thought a positive thought. She was no longer bleeding. Though her body still ached, it was one less thing to worry and feel foul about.

She finished up and elbowed his side to move inwards to the area they stopped at, and changed the direction of their conversation.

Daenerys decided that she had learned enough about the Lady Stark and not enough about his favorite sibling.

She lied and told herself it would be best to sway the rebellious Stark in her favor for political reasons, but she found herself wanting it for more personal reasons.

Jon was excited to see her.

“Is Lady Arya difficult?” she asked.

“Define difficult,” he looked to her apprehensively.

“Would you believe me to be difficult?”

His eyes tightened, as if he was sure she was tricking him. “What does that mean?”

She gave his question a dismissive wave of her hand. “It depends,” he sighed.

“On?”

“The topic, the circumstance…” he trailed off.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes at him, somewhat offended, “What do you think me to be easy on?”

“No, stop that.” He looked up with straight face. “Don’t start that.”

“You were insinuating-” she started heatedly.

“I was not,” he clipped. “You are assuming-”

“You were thinking it,” she shot back.

“Because I knew that would be the first thing to come to your mind-” His face started to redden. “That is why I stopped halfway through…”

It was true; she did assume. What they had done was not only questionable for who they were but for the land’s morals. She was no maiden, nor innocent and delicate. She undoubtedly enjoyed earthier acts, but not with just anyone. He was Jon Snow. Honorable and principled, Jon Snow.

Sensing her frustration, he must have stopped to huff out a sigh from watching her aggravated placement of furs.

“You are easy to vex,” he spoke, annoyed. “You are not easy to read. Or get to truly open up.” He seemed to do it successfully, though. She frowned. _Not without difficulty, it appeared._

“Like right now, I know you are hiding something but I can’t tell what it is.”

Daenerys tried to conceal her discomfort, her mind immediately jumping to the lack of feeling attached to her tether. _Of course._

“You are not easy to please,” he repeated.

“Excuse me?” she snorted.

“To keep happy,” he clarified.

“I did not know you were trying,” she bit.

“I wasn’t.” His voice was as calm as the early afternoon waves on Dragonstone.

Her mouth snapped shut. “You do not strike me as a woman that just wants to be pleasured by a man,” he shrugged. “You take what you want. When you want it. How you want it.”

She wanted to deny what he said knowing she was not taking what she wanted. The Kingdom. The North. All the Lands. _Him_.

She did not, though. It was indeed in her nature, she settled. She had done it before but now she was halted. By him. Tyrion. Her ever-growing conscious. Her expanding knowledge and experience.

“She is stubborn.” _Lady Arya._ “It comes from her oppression. She wanted things that most girls did not,” he suddenly smiled.

Daenerys looked to him to continue, their previous argument dropped, if temporarily.

“A bow and arrow,” he said. He was smiling at a memory, she was certain. “She was better at it than I, that is for sure.”

Now that he mentioned it, she never did see him looking at any weapon besides a blade. Even when glancing at the forges in a town.

“Everything people demanded from her, she did not want to give.” There was drowsiness in his voice. He was getting sleepy. “Perfect stitching. For her to wear frilly dresses. It used to make her angry.”

“She is hard to impress though I don’t think you will find it difficult,” he yawned.

She swallowed the satisfaction that rose in her throat. “Why do you say that?”

Jon leaned back against a stump. “Visenya Targaryen was her idol. Read a lot about Rhaenys too,” he remarked. “I can recite Aegon’s conquest to you, perfectly. Used to read it to her every night.”

She caught his eyes, no longer bothering to stop the tug at her lips. “A lot of our heroes were great Targaryen leaders.” His voice was low and pensive as she supposed he was coming to the realization.

“Daeron Targaryen,” she recalled, “Visenya Targaryen?” Daenerys smiled. “Have affection for Targaryen rulers?” she raised her eyebrow at him.

“Apparently so.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jon awoke to muffled sobs.

He did not realize he had fallen asleep. And that rarely happened for he was normally a light sleeper.

Shuffling over, he saw Daenerys sitting up, staring blankly ahead with her hand covering her mouth.

It was the first time he had seen her cry. “What’s wrong?” he crawled to her, attempting a levelled voice.

“Dany!” He did not want to shake her, fearing he would do more harm than good. He peered closer, pulling up his cloak to wrap around them as he pulled her body to his.

Holding her in his arms, he could feel the wetness of her face and the trembling of her body. He wondered what could render her mute. _Viserion. Drogon. Her advisors._

It weighed on her and he could see it when she lost concentration, as she often did throughout the day. Her eyes seemed to wander far from relative reality at times, and then snap back harshly which only motivated him to get them back to his home sooner.

The sooner they reached Winterfell, the faster they could figure out what had actually happened. It was what he chanted to himself.

And the faster they could move on to the war with the army of the dead.

He held her silently for some time before she sniffed, saying, “I heard a song.”

“What?” Jon pulled back slightly to see her face.

“I heard a song,” she repeated quietly.

“In your sleep?” he questioned.

“No, someone was singing.”

His body stiffened, eyes darting around.

Jon had kept them rather low. A looming sense of danger had not left him since he got back from Eastwatch, since they entered that first town, and he could feel it now more than ever.

Him sleeping so heavily that night only heightened his unease. “Where?” he questioned, lifting her chin. “Did you see who?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes rimmed red. “Why did you not wake me?” He made to stand up, reaching for his sword that seemed far lighter without his wolf pommel, that he managed to remove and hide away, attached to it.

He wanted to leave immediately, but her body sat quiet, sagging to the ground. “It was just some elderly stumpy woman,” Daenerys shuddered, “singing.”

Jon looked at her oddly. _It was the middle of the night and she saw a stumpy old woman singing?_

He could hardly see her purple eyes.

Sighing, he remembered. _Haunted._ Never should he have let her mock him into going against his gut.

It could have been having a nightmare, he tried to reason with himself before jumping to ghosts.

“It was about some girl named Jenny. Some war…” Daenerys trailed off.

“Then why are you crying?” he asked softly, leaning back down.

“I do not know,” her eyes watered. “It did not even have an ending. She just kept repeating one part,” her voice got higher, setting him more on edge.

“Maybe she only knew that part,” he said in an attempt to soothe her.

“She sang it like it was the only thing that mattered,” she said, her eyes darting towards him. “Like a prayer, a prophecy,” she paused. “A _warning_.”

“Dany-” he began. “It was so sad,” the passion in her voice unnerved him.

“The song?” he repeated in question. “The song was sad?”

“The song was sad.”

He stared down at her, violet eyes masked with anguish.

 

 

***

 

 

When Jon brought up the previous night to her the following morning, she had no recollection. But her eyes, they were eerie.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon had been alert although they were in the Riverlands.

An odd feeling kept chewing at his insides to the point where he was becoming increasingly paranoid.

Daenerys would throw him strange looks at his weird patterns in riding. Switching between a hard sprint and careful trots, often changing schedule and looping twice or thrice over near towns to look as if they were nomadic; not seeming to be going anywhere particular.

He enjoyed taking her to the markets though, watching her make peculiar companions, acting as if she could hardly speak yet somehow pulling information from the townspeople.

Small folk down south loved to gossip. And she was excellent at charming them no matter how off-beat she acted.

Drogon had been spotted once, apparently. _“A shadow in the sky and after, it cried blood_.” She had looked relieved yet discomforted. 

Their eyes met momentarily before they continued on, pretending they did not hear that her son could be hurt.

Jon kept to himself, watching her from afar, assuring that they were well-supplied for when they headed north where they would either endure the cold or stay in an inn or two.

However content she was, he seemed to be tightly coiled whenever they returned from the different markets, eyes dark, downcast and shoulders layered with strain.

He could not explain it to her, because he could not understand the feeling himself.

She seemed to trust him better though, much to his relief.

After what had happened at High Heart he refused to sleep for long, fearing that something would happen to her. Oftentimes, he would miss out on sleep altogether, pulling away from her in the middle of the night to patrol the area while she rested.

His nightmares, for the times he actually managed slumber, were at bay since she decided to curl into him every evening or early morning varying on the overcast.

The heat that radiated off of her skin and seeped into his was becoming an addiction. 

He had been doing a good job at hiding his feelings, he thought. Or if he was not, she did not mention it. But his fondness was beginning to trouble him, for the deeper she nestled into him, the further beneath his skin she resided.

She would soon be impossible to remove. And he wasn’t certain he wanted her removed at all.

On that grey night, in the middle of nowhere, he began to wonder if that was her plan. Seduce him or make him weak, show him off to the northern lords to taunt. The stress of mistrust exasperated him.

He awoke from a quick nap with her back to his front and her hips moving against his, successfully getting a groan to rise in his throat.

He knew that she was different, but women, _they must all be insane._

Stilling her with the palms of his hands on her hips, he refused her. Refused himself.

_No time. No time. Stop making time._

She turned her head, eyes alert, traveling to his lower half, seeing his body betray his mind.

He shook his head, ignoring the throb. 

He sat up, making to stand, requiring distance that she looked to be insistent on him not taking, laying her fingers on his arms.

Words escaped him as she sat up, her palms moving to his own, placing them on her body, slowly allowing him the feeling of her still soft skin despite their peripatetic.

He wished to snatch his hands away but his mind fogged with desire. The hard drumming of his heart the only thing he could hear as she stroked her way past her breeches to place one of his palms to her damp center.

Swallowing, he gazed at her face. Her eyes glazed with longing, that seemed to go straight to his groin.

He searched her eyes for one thing, something, anything to make him stop.

Nothing but a wanton plea was visible on her features.

Cursing himself, he slipped his hands passed her smallclothes to find her folds heady with arousal. Wet and slick. He slid his fingers past her entrance, feeling, massaging, caressing her till her eyes closed, releasing her hold on him.

He could flee. 

He should flee, but the moan that escaped her lips weakened his resistance.

He pulled at the cloth covering her womanhood, watching her bite her lips, face assailed with awareness. Feeling her hands upon him move once more, she seemed to have broken through all his barriers, discarding his cloak, pulling at his jerkin, grasping at his tunic. 

Using his other palm, he brought her face to his, feeling the smoothness of her rosy cheeks, watching her eyelashes flutter in, now, timidity, simmering down from her wild tugs. He hadn’t the time before to see her. If she was so keen on laying together, Jon sought to make it count. To make it matter.

Her lips tasted of the dried fruit he knew she kept hidden next to her as she slept, always desiring a treat midway through her slumber. Plums and grape flavors coated his tongue as he massaged his over hers.

Jon felt the hairs on his body stand up as she sucked on his lower lip while continuing to smooth her palms over his shoulders, relieving him entirely of his tunic. He shuddered as her head dipped to the hollow of his throat.

His fingers played with the ends of her scarf, desiring to take it off.

Before she moved further down, he grasped at the ties by her neck, ridding her of the light brown cape she had donned the last few days.

Jon brought her lips back to his as he reached behind her, untying the laces that held up the brown material she covered herself with. He thought her to be wearing something else underneath, but his eyes widened when he was greeted by the creamy white tops of her breasts. _Of course she would not_.

At his stupor, Daenerys pushed him down, sliding her body against him. He could feel the wetness of her lips trail down his neck once more, open kisses on his skin and risen gooseflesh left in their wake. Emotion welled in his throat as her hands skated past his scars, which he wished were not there, but accepted that she saw.

He waited for her comment, a questioning look to be thrown at him, but peeking at her, she only kissed them, stroked them, each one, as if she was counting, focused as ever on making him shudder. And he did.

Jon groaned as she untied his breeches, and then shoved them away.

Her hands were warm despite the light chill in the air. His head fell back as she smoothed them over his length.

He did not see her move to slip her mouth over him, only felt the wetness of her tongue.

His body shot up frantically. A sinful smirk danced across her features at his shock. Her eyes locked onto his as her lips peppered him with open kisses before moistening her lips to take him into her mouth again.

He could not even utter a protest.

She was a queen. His queen. Noble. Highborn. His superior. _And he was only a-_

He gasped when he felt the back of her throat, disrupting his thoughts. She seemed to like that, want that, because she looked up, eyes laced with such cockiness that he almost regretted giving her the satisfaction. But her hand pressed against his torso, fixing him to lean back as the other worked his shaft.

Jon knew he shouldn’t but he pulled at the scarf on her head as he fell back. He tossed it somewhere, not caring as warmth and wetness engulfed him. 

His brain must have gone simple somewhere along the cupping of his sack because all he saw were bright dots in the sky, and all his worries lift from his body.

When he was younger, he heard men talk about some ladies using their mouths on them, and he’d thought them to be stupid. Over-exaggerating. Why would they want such a thing? Allow such a thing?

He was wrong. So unquestionably wrong.

The coiling in his stomach started to intensify, snapping him from his thoughts. She seemed to be humming in satisfaction but he sat up, reaching for her face.

She popped up and as soon as she did, he could see the glassiness of exertion on her eyes and the swelling of her lips. Running his fingers over them, he dragged her to his despite her initial protests and shoved the remaining clothes from her body.

He could taste himself on her. He thought he should be disgusted, would be disgusted, but it was sensual the way her tongue slid over his. Personal. Satisfying, knowing that doing so made her purr against him in pleasure.

On effort to calm the urge to release, he distracted himself, stroking every inch of her body, from her shoulders to her legs, to make her wrap herself around him gently, tenderly.

Her skin was as soft as fresh wool, as warm as freshly mulled cider. And she was responsive.

So damp.

As he kissed down her neck, pressing a finger to the base of her throat, he was greeted with a pleasing tremble. She cried out when his mouth came down on her breasts, swirling his tongue around her pink nipples alternately. Her eyes rolled back when he gripped her backside, grinding her against the muscles of his stomach.

She started mumbling something incoherently when he nibbled her jaw, and when he bit down at her throat, finding the bundle of nerves between her legs, making her curse in another language. He halted, just to look at her pant as he rubbed. Sweat gathered at her collarbone, her face reddening with every new stroke.

He wanted to see her shake. He needed to see her shake.

He went to roll them over, but she stopped him, fixing herself on top of him, rolling her hips to his. His breath hitched, he was pinned between her legs.

Digging her nails into his arms, she slipped him into her and grounded into him.

He could see the bruises from their voyage on the inside of her thighs, but she seemed mindless of the pain as she unforgivingly came down on him.

Jon grunted as her pace quickened.

Pulling up to thrust into her, he realized she was a goddes. She submitted to no one.

As his hand gripped her hips and ghosted over her waist, he was able to choke out, “I can’t believe you are real.”

It had been a light whisper for the words just slipped past his tongue but her eyes, her violet eyes broke open to seek his. And she shattered. She cried out a symphonic noise, collapsing as the coil in his stomach snapped. He groaned as he spilled into her, feeling her pulse around him.

They stayed entangled as he leaned back, her body moving with his, arms wrapped around his neck, legs only adjusting to their new position. He could feel the aftershocks of her release, her body trembling, breathing uneven.

Not bothering to pull out of her yet, he lifted his cloak from behind him to cover them as he listened to her breathing as it evened out.

 

He had already nodded off when Daenerys whispered, “Who was she?”

Her back had turned from him at some point, head curled against his arm, partially covered. He thought she had fallen asleep.

Jon hoped his lack of movement would allow him to feign deep slumber, not desiring to speak on the topic. She did not let up.

“The woman you loved?” Daenerys clarified, her voice melodic and soft.

He had rarely talked about her, never said her name, burying his shame. He could tell her, he supposed. Perhaps it would make relieve the weight over his heart. Or maybe, he could look at the woman in his arms and see pity in her eyes, or watch her feign sadness.

_No, that is not like her._

Closing his eyes, he uttered, voice rough, “Why do you ask?”

“You are not born a lover like that, Jon Snow.” He had hardly done anything, to his knowledge. Only touched her with tenderness. Looked her in the eyes. _Had she only had meaningless encounters? Forced encounters? Rough encounters?_

He expected her to pull away or question him further, but she did not. Only curled into him more.

He wanted to tell her.

 

 

***

 

 

The sun had just barely risen, but she was already up with a great deal of energy.

Before he could even roll over, she had her scarf fitted and dress back on, nearly perfectly laced. He would only have to reach behind her and fix a part of it. He did.

The horses were already fed and watered, their things packed back up and strapped to the cattle.

The rest of his clothing laid at his feet under a few pieces of hard cheese and two firm rolls.

She had a bizarre abundance of energy.

He shook his head and released a sound somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. The air was light, and something in him felt nimble.

Jon had not known then, but something had shifted as he watched her float about with liveliness.

“What are you thinking about?” she called out, moving her mare closer to where they slept, encouraging him to swallow the food and ready himself.

Jon reached towards his boot, sliding the leather over his feet while she stroked the spotted horse. “All of the improper things I wish to do to you,” he stopped to watch her head turn towards him sharply, pupils dilating, eyes flooding with desire. He had wanted to speak those honest words to her since the first time she questioned the goings-on of his mind. 

Shaking her head, she swallowed and pulled at the reigns, climbing her horse.

“Come along, Jon Snow.”

 

 

***

 

 

_ Later _

 

“Cersei, we have not seen or heard from them in a fortnight.” Tyrion sat on an armchair across from his sister. “Let us go.”

Him and a few Dothraki guards were taken, from his knowledge. While his sister had him kept in an isolated tower, to their brother’s insistence, his guards remained in the prisons.

As per the original plan, the army should have split and scattered towards the Reach. Varys would have slipped out of the city and the Greyjoy boy was to deliver Missandei back to Dragonstone for her safety, until word was delivered. But his questions went unanswered by everyone surrounding him, predictably.

Drogon was unaccounted as stated by his sister and the Queen’s disappearance was further discomforting.

That was the most he knew.

“This is your trick,” his dear sister sneered at him, as she did every day, for the past two and a half weeks at that similar time. She did her best to remind him that it would not work, telling him every few days that she had killed another Dothraki Screamer.

Tyrion had been warned by his brother not to goad her as she could do worse. However, parading the captured horse lords as prizes around the capital to calm the civilians into thinking that all would be well once more hardly sounded far from worse.

“Come off it. You sound mad,” he said, exasperated. “I swear this is not a part of any plan,” Tyrion only partially lied, gazing at his sister stony façade.

He had told his sister numerous times that raining fire amongst the land was not what was prearranged. _Not a lie._ The Pit should not have been destroyed, hundreds should not have died. _Not a lie._ It had been so far from what everyone had wanted. _Also, not a lie._

They had tried to contain the fires, Jaime being the first one to gather troops to attempt pulling people from the rubbish, leaving him with Cersei, with a tone of warning at both of them.

His brother had been furious and Tyrion did not know at whom; their sister for calling the attack on Daenerys to be carried on by The Mountain, which seemed to have instigated the entire situation, though she had denied making the call, saying he must have felt her life had been threatened, or him for backing Daenerys.

He tried to explain to Jaime the vision, but understood the haze of smoke outside the castle made it difficult.

He had urged his sister to think about the repercussions of that single act and how it could affect the people’s image of his Queen. It made absolutely no sense as did her most recent argument.

“Why would I send a silver-haired woman on foot anywhere?” Cersei had belittled him, continued to condemn him for finding ways for her to escape as if he was insane. In fact, the thought of her not returning to her ancestral family seat with Theon Greyjoy or her dragon had been the only thing to spiral him into a mild depression. “She is an obvious target,” he said through his teeth.

Every day, multiple times a day, his sister took to interrogating him, stealing borrowed time. Precious time. Repeating similar words to see if his tale would turn.

It did not.

He told more truth than lies.

Tyrion’s grief only increased with every hour that passed, much to her satisfaction. “Queen Daenerys knows nothing of this land outside of the books your advisors sent Jorah Mormont to gift her when she wed the Dothraki Khal,” he pressed for her to listen to him.  
“And that bastard?”

“Jon Snow has never been south,” he repeated flippantly. Jon Snow was alive, he trusted that. The King in the North had been seated closest to the exit while he and Daenerys were closer to the center.

Limited people knew their plan, which made it nearly impossible for it to have gone wrong. At least that was what the small lord told himself before he attempted sleep. “This makes no sense,” he clipped.

She hummed mockingly.

She was afraid. Her people were in disarray, not that she seemed to truly care, but it was the one time she did not intend for mass destruction with fire. And of course, it happened.

Tyrion thought that perhaps she thought the people would rebel against her, as she had done something similar before.

In the dark recesses of his mind, he knew he could spin that story in the future.

She should be afraid.

The longer he stared at her, the more he was able to confirm for himself that she was terrified. Maddeningly. Of what specifically, he could not entirely tell but it was the only thing that made sense to him as she would not kill _him_. At least not yet.

May haps she was even scared of, too, being the last of her name. Alone. Dead. Continuing at making a mockery of the family name, as he did in her eyes.

But even then, she could not kill him.

“If one of them is alive, you let us go. They have good hearts, they will remember this.” Time was running impossibly low. Had they wanted to, they could have unleashed the Dothraki to swarm the city, allow the Unsullied to take the castle, but they did not.

It was not what his Queen would have desired. _Not a part of the plan. No more destruction_ , they had agreed. However, it was still a contingency. The least ideal one of the lot, disregarding the one that had the dragons raining fire to the remaining lands.

But Varys knew, come the 21st day from the events at the Pit, depending on who was taken, he would either give word to the second-in-command Dothraki commander, as the superior was his guard, and Grey Worm or Sunspear to sack the city or travel north, though it could potentially heighten the resistance.

“If they are dead?” Taken aback, Tyrion swallowed as it was the first time Cersei had considered them both to be truly gone.

She was sure Daenerys was still alive, while he was not. _The dragon belted out an ear shattering sound that left the capital in chaos._ He swallowed his anxiety.

He knew the King in the North would be alright, which she had been delighted in thinking was dead.

“Then you won’t have to worry, for the dragons have no mother and are quite fond of me.” The words bitter on his tongue. There dragons _were_ indeed fond of him but they would not be controlled, none of them. “I do not want my niece or nephew inside of you dead or parentless.”

The news of his sister carrying another child spiraled him deeper into misery. The sting of betrayal danced across his skin, transported vehemently from both his siblings’ eyes.

Cersei was a cruel person, an even crueler queen. Not fit to rule an empire. But still, they shared blood. “But we must go. Lady Sansa as well as The North await our arrival.”

She would not look at him now.

“They need the army, Cersei.” Refusing to let her shut him out again, he pleaded. “You saw what lies north. We still have the weapons they were promised, the supplies,” he added, needing her to see reason. “We need to leave before they wage war on all of us and leave the dead to the rest of the realms. We have to fight or even the child within you, no matter how far you flee-”

“They cannot swim.”

Tyrion’s head fell to his hands and let out a bitter laugh. “I never took you for a coward,” his lips curled when he raised. “Warfare- removing your enemies is what you do best, is it not?”

She stared at him, heightening the uneasy silence.

Tyrion traced his eyes over her, slipping from the seat to the goblet of wine, which at that point, if poisoned, he would welcome it.

She sat with her hand on her stomach and a grimace on her face. He knew the only thing she cared for was family, no matter how ugly he was, or how controversial her relations with Jaime were. _It was all that mattered._ He wracked his brain for anything he could say to sway her.

Only one last thing came to him.

“Does not matter,” he shrugged as his brother walked in, probably to usher him back to his chambers. He trained his eyes downward for he had one more chance to make her waver. “They took her dragon down, Cersei,” he let the words slip past his teeth. “The army of the dead.”

“What?” Jaime seemed to audibly portray her expression.

He let them see the grimness that he had not even allowed Daenerys. “You only saw one.”

“She only has one dragon left?” Cersei questioned.

Tyrion sighed, containing his smirk. _Let her underestimate us._

Now, she was listening.

“I advised her not to share this vital detail,” he placed his goblet down, faking hesitation. “I did not want to, I do not want to, but you must understand that the dead are strong. And they are coming.”

Jaime’s alarm was what he desired for Cersei but knew that she would not allow it to surface in her features.

“If they can kill those beasts-” Jaime started, but Tyrion did not let him continue. Excessive negativity would not serve him well.

“You can run, but they will soon come, and you will not live. They will find a way.”

“It does not seem that I will live either way,” Cersei spoke rigidly, a sardonic lilt in her tone.

“You do not believe that and neither do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next...  
> “Is there anything you cannot do?” 
> 
> “Like piss at dawn without my Lord Hand stumbling into my chambers prattling on about how immoral noblemen are and how untrustworthy whores are?”
> 
> Jon tossed her a look at the crudeness escaping her as she bit her lips, deadpanning. 
> 
>  
> 
> I have yet to read this through. I edited some stuff after Iane went over it because I am a dick so excuse the mistakes I made. I will fix and read this on the train in the morning and I'll reply to you guys in few because I have class in like three hours. Apologies for the confusion and I hope that as the story progresses, you'll find the answers you are looking for. 
> 
> Thank you to those who are still around! Drop some comments. I appreciate them <3


	7. To Whom Does One Owe Their Lives To?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is there anything you cannot do?”
> 
> “Like piss at dawn without my Lord Hand stumbling into my chambers prattling on about how immoral noblemen are and how untrustworthy whores are?”
> 
> Jon tossed her a look at the crudeness escaping her as she bit her lips, deadpanning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies to you guys. 
> 
> This was beta'd before I went a bit crazy, but still, my thanks to Iane who is very patient with me.
> 
> Sorry for any new mistakes I undoubtably made, I'll re-read it in the am!
> 
> Hopefully the length of this chapter will make it up to you.
> 
> Enjoy and Comment, pretty please with Dany on top <3

 

> **_Previously_ **
> 
> “Cersei, we have not seen or heard from them in a fortnight.” Tyrion sat on an armchair across from his sister. “Let us go.”
> 
> Him and a few Dothraki guards were taken, from his knowledge. While his sister had him kept in an isolated tower, to their brother’s insistence, his guards remained in the prisons.
> 
> As per the original plan, the army should have split and scattered towards the Reach. Varys would have slipped out of the city and the Greyjoy boy was to deliver Missandei back to Dragonstone for her safety, until word was delivered. But his questions went unanswered by everyone surrounding him, predictably.
> 
> Drogon was unaccounted as stated by his sister and the Queen’s disappearance was further discomforting.
> 
> That was the most he knew.
> 
> “This is your trick,” his dear sister sneered at him, as she did every day, for the past two and a half weeks at that similar time. She did her best to remind him that it would not work, telling him every few days that she had killed another Dothraki Screamer.
> 
> Tyrion had been warned by his brother not to goad her as she could do worse. However, parading the captured horse lords as prizes around the capital to calm the civilians into thinking that all would be well once more hardly sounded far from worse.
> 
> “Come off it. You sound mad,” he said, exasperated. “I swear this is not a part of any plan,” Tyrion only partially lied, gazing at his sister stony façade.
> 
> He had told his sister numerous times that raining fire amongst the land was not what was prearranged.  _Not a lie._  The Pit should not have been destroyed, hundreds should not have died.  _Not a lie._  It had been so far from what everyone had wanted.  _Also, not a lie._
> 
> They had tried to contain the fires, Jaime being the first one to gather troops to attempt pulling people from the rubbish, leaving him with Cersei, with a tone of warning at both of them.
> 
> His brother had been furious and Tyrion did not know at whom; their sister for calling the attack on Daenerys to be carried on by The Mountain, which seemed to have instigated the entire situation, though she had denied making the call, saying he must have felt her life had been threatened, or him for backing Daenerys.
> 
> He tried to explain to Jaime the vision, but understood the haze of smoke outside the castle made it difficult.
> 
> He had urged his sister to think about the repercussions of that single act and how it could affect the people’s image of his Queen. It made absolutely no sense as did her most recent argument.
> 
> “Why would I send a silver-haired woman on foot anywhere?” Cersei had belittled him, continued to condemn him for finding ways for her to escape as if he was insane. In fact, the thought of her not returning to her ancestral family seat with Theon Greyjoy or her dragon had been the only thing to spiral him into a mild depression. “She is an obvious target,” he said through his teeth.
> 
> Every day, multiple times a day, his sister took to interrogating him, stealing borrowed time. Precious time. Repeating similar words to see if his tale would turn.
> 
> It did not.
> 
> He told more truth than lies.
> 
> Tyrion’s grief only increased with every hour that passed, much to her satisfaction. “Queen Daenerys knows nothing of this land outside of the books your advisors sent Jorah Mormont to gift her when she wed the Dothraki Khal,” he pressed for her to listen to him.  
>  “And that bastard?”
> 
> “Jon Snow has never been south,” he repeated flippantly. Jon Snow was alive, he trusted that. The King in the North had been seated closest to the exit while he and Daenerys were closer to the center.
> 
> Limited people knew their plan, which made it nearly impossible for it to have gone wrong. At least that was what the small lord told himself before he attempted sleep. “This makes no sense,” he clipped.
> 
> She hummed mockingly.
> 
> She was afraid. Her people were in disarray, not that she seemed to truly care, but it was the one time she did not intend for mass destruction with fire. And of course, it happened.
> 
> Tyrion thought that perhaps she thought the people would rebel against her, as she had done something similar before.
> 
> In the dark recesses of his mind, he knew he could spin that story in the future.
> 
> She should be afraid.
> 
> The longer he stared at her, the more he was able to confirm for himself that she was terrified. Maddeningly. Of what specifically, he could not entirely tell but it was the only thing that made sense to him as she would not kill  _him_. At least not yet.
> 
> May haps she was even scared of, too, being the last of her name. Alone. Dead. Continuing at making a mockery of the family name, as he did in her eyes.
> 
> But even then, she could not kill him.
> 
> “If one of them is alive, you let us go. They have good hearts, they will remember this.” Time was running impossibly low. Had they wanted to, they could have unleashed the Dothraki to swarm the city, allow the Unsullied to take the castle, but they did not.
> 
> It was not what his Queen would have desired.  _Not a part of the plan. No more destruction_ , they had agreed. However, it was still a contingency. The least ideal one of the lot, disregarding the one that had the dragons raining fire to the remaining lands.
> 
> But Varys knew, come the 21st day from the events at the Pit, depending on who was taken, he would either give word to the second-in-command Dothraki commander, as the superior was his guard, and Grey Worm or Sunspear to sack the city or travel north, though it could potentially heighten the resistance.
> 
> “If they are dead?” Taken aback, Tyrion swallowed as it was the first time Cersei had considered them both to be truly gone.
> 
> She was sure Daenerys was still alive, while he was not.  _The dragon belted out an ear shattering sound that left the capital in chaos._ He swallowed his anxiety.
> 
> He knew the King in the North would be alright, which she had been delighted in thinking was dead.
> 
> “Then you won’t have to worry, for the dragons have no mother and are quite fond of me.” The words bitter on his tongue. There dragons  _were_ indeed fond of him but they would not be controlled, none of them. “I do not want my niece or nephew inside of you dead or parentless.”
> 
> The news of his sister carrying another child spiraled him deeper into misery. The sting of betrayal danced across his skin, transported vehemently from both his siblings’ eyes.
> 
> Cersei was a cruel person, an even crueler queen. Not fit to rule an empire. But still, they shared blood. “But we must go. Lady Sansa as well as The North await our arrival.”
> 
> She would not look at him now.
> 
> “They need the army, Cersei.” Refusing to let her shut him out again, he pleaded. “You saw what lies north. We still have the weapons they were promised, the supplies,” he added, needing her to see reason. “We need to leave before they wage war on all of us and leave the dead to the rest of the realms. We have to fight or even the child within you, no matter how far you flee-”
> 
> “They cannot swim.”
> 
> Tyrion’s head fell to his hands and let out a bitter laugh. “I never took you for a coward,” his lips curled when he raised. “Warfare- removing your enemies is what you do best, is it not?”
> 
> She stared at him, heightening the uneasy silence.
> 
> Tyrion traced his eyes over her, slipping from the seat to the goblet of wine, which at that point, if poisoned, he would welcome it.
> 
> She sat with her hand on her stomach and a grimace on her face. He knew the only thing she cared for was family, no matter how ugly he was, or how controversial her relations with Jaime were.  _It was all that mattered._  He wracked his brain for anything he could say to sway her.
> 
> Only one last thing came to him.
> 
> “Does not matter,” he shrugged as his brother walked in, probably to usher him back to his chambers. He trained his eyes downward for he had one more chance to make her waver. “They took her dragon down, Cersei,” he let the words slip past his teeth. “The army of the dead.”
> 
> “What?” Jaime seemed to audibly portray her expression.
> 
> He let them see the grimness that he had not even allowed Daenerys. “You only saw one.”
> 
> “She only has one dragon left?” Cersei questioned.
> 
> Tyrion sighed, containing his smirk.  _Let her underestimate us._
> 
> Now, she was listening.
> 
> “I advised her not to share this vital detail,” he placed his goblet down, faking hesitation. “I did not want to, I do not want to, but you must understand that the dead are strong. And they are coming.”
> 
> Jaime’s alarm was what he desired for Cersei but knew that she would not allow it to surface in her features.
> 
> “If they can kill those beasts-” Jaime started, but Tyrion did not let him continue. Excessive negativity would not serve him well.
> 
> “You can run, but they will soon come, and you will not live. They will find a way.”
> 
> “It does not seem that I will live either way,” Cersei spoke rigidly, a sardonic lilt in her tone.
> 
> “You do not believe that and neither do I.”
> 
>  

_***_

 

_Later- Week 3_

The war room at Dragonstone had not changed. The air was stale with depression, and eeriness trickled down the stones.

It was never deemed lonely though, not by Missandei, by any means, not even when Grey Worm had departed to take Casterly Rock. She always had Lord Tyrion to keep her entertained or the Dothraki to keep her on her toes or her Queen to gossip with. However, the unnerving castle had become desolate despite Gilly’s attempts at conversation in the most lost parts of the day.

“What does it say? Is it bad?” The Greyjoy lord had not turned around to her when he asked but took her silence with a nod of his head.

The note contained nothing agreeable.

The message was given by a yellow haired boy who came by rowboat to the island, with a signature most notably Lord Varys’. It was the second one to come, but still enclosed no news regarding her Queen or the northern King.

The first message that was delivered had notified her that Ser Jorah Mormont was with him, leading the Dothraki with Hero. It had also said that Grey Worm was northbound, which was unsettling, but she knew he was strong.

She had wanted to reply to Lord Varys and say that she was hopeful as he went to search for the Queen after pushing her out of the way. But she was on strict order not to send messages unless absolutely necessary, for the Lannister Queen was shooting down ravens to keep all information south. But, that was a fortnight ago.

Missandei tapped her fingers nervously as she set down the scroll, looking up to the man that stood a decent distance before her. “Should he be doing that- lapping around?”

Lord Theon was indeed skittish, but he was not being dramatic as he stood out on the opening’s edge, his arms wrapped around himself in worry.

“Is it getting worse?” her voice was somber.

The lord nodded. 

From the first day she arrived back to the island, Rhaegal had been screeching though unharmed, but recently he had been silently patrolling the air and cliffs, almost akin to a person’s nervous pacing, even more so when the weather went to incredibly grey lengths. She had even begun to wonder if there was a sun any longer.

“And the Imp?” he probed.

“No word. Still captive,” she responded. “The armies are in the Reach, readying for travel on Ser Jorah Mormont and Lord Varys’ command.”

“Why is it that they have waited three weeks?” the Greyjoy lord whipped his head towards her direction, eyes wide with a curious amount of anxiety as such orders meant they were to leave soon as well.

“It had been agreed upon,” the curly-haired girl pursed her lips, reminding him. 

He had not been at the meeting but was filled in generously by Lord Tyrion on the travels to the Dragon Pit. It had been her idea to keep him away from the Northern King as tensions were high the first time they had greeted each other, for reasons she was not fully cleared on, but understood it had to do with the lord’s time being a Stark ward. The terminologies were still a bit fuzzy to her. “My Lord, remind me further of how well you know the King.”

“We grew up together.” The man had rarely said much but did as he had been commanded, take her back to the island, keep the Targaryen stronghold. And they did, with ease.

He was terrible at conversation, she found. Though it never stopped her from trying. Samwell Tarly had been the most agreeable but was rather busy relieving his own nerviness in the books he had borrowed from the Citadel per his King’s orders.

“And is he capable of betrayal?” It was a difficult question to ask and Missandei had been working her courage up for the last fortnight to ask it. She did not mean to offend or conjure up the memories she was sure were uncomfortable, thought she seemed to have done so anyway because his countenance stiffened.

“Anyone is capable of such things,” he audibly swallowed, still not looking at her. “But, Jon,” he paused. “King Jon is good. He would not disappear like this unless it was necessary.” 

“You think him to be alive?” They had had this conversation before, many times but over two weeks ago.

It was now nearly a moon later with no word.

“I hope he is,” the Greyjoy lowered his head.

“Has Samwell Tarly received anything from Winterfell?” he questioned, voice lower.

“No,” she shook her head. “He suspects it is snowing hard, as the weather is beginning to still here.” And there was the possibility that it had just been shot down but she refrained from releasing further negativity.

“It’s not cold,” he finally looked to her, but quickly diverted his gaze to the ground.

“No, I suppose it is not.” The weather had been a frequent topic amongst him, her and Sam. It was a repeated talk about its inconsistency. It was chilly to her, but the King’s friend had spent years at the coldest place on earth, this man spent weeks at a chillier sea than the island water she grew up on and an entire childhood in freezing climate.

Missandei had tried to persuade him to send a raven to the eldest Stark daughter as he had more intimacy with the family, but he vehemently denied the request stating that Tarly would be best as he was very eloquent and not as known amongst the realm.

When Sam was not in the library night and day searching, he was wandering the volcanoes and ruins, distracting himself with the information scrawled on the walls but did the task of contacting the king’s family easily enough, twice. 

She and Gilly had begun lessons on learning how to write properly. Whilst doing so, Missandei had been startled by the girl’s story that the mousy woman elaborated on easy enough.

The free folk girl had grown defensive saying that her queen was born of incest as well but that had not been why Missandei was disturbed— the accounts of rape, selling children— that many children, sickened her. Still.

Even as large as the continents were, the same practices were still followed even on opposite ends of the world.

It was not good conversation. None of the talks she had in the last three weeks had been.

Missandei had been alarmed by a loud screech, one that mad her jump to her feet as the Greyjoy lord stepped further out on the ledge, turning back quickly as she made fast steps to peer outside the opening. 

“He is not supposed to be doing that, is he?” the horrified lord gasped.

Rhaegal, who had always been considerably aloof was bellowing a sound that was unrecognizable. His wings flapped erratically and he roared but still would not leave.

Daenerys had said he was becoming stubborn and confided in her that her tether felt as if it was straining with him. She had said she still felt the warmth of him within her, but not as it used to be, not for some time. He was pulling away.

Missandei was inclined to disagree, especially now as the Queen’s dragon would not move from the area she had commanded him to stay, for his protection. He was still loyal.

Though, maybe he did it for his safety.

Her Queen had told her how fast he had raced from the north when her other son had fallen, _so—_ her thoughts were interrupted as the dragon belted out an ear-shattering sound.

Her body stood paralyzed as an unfathomable wailing echoed through the room. It was a cataclysmic noise resembling the pulverization of glass, the sharpening of knives and the thunderous crashes of stormy waves.

Missandei could have sworn she could hear screams in the screech.

A whimper escaped her lips as she finally got her feet to move.

Running towards the table, the queen’s most trusted advisor shakily scribbled across a parchment the accounts of the awful tune her Queen’s Dragon began crying.

Lord Varys had said nothing was exiting the south, but that was before, and they were still in the south. The message needed to get to him.

 

 

***

 

 

 _Two and a half weeks_ on the road now, and fragility was in the air. 

Despite the growing and open affection between him and his Queen, Jon’s unease had disrupted their travels, increasing the length of their trip further. The Riverlands were not entirely what was described by his other siblings. It may have been the overcast of clouds that assured him a downpour was sure to come. Or it could have been the suppressed anger in him beginning to rise as they approached the Twins.

The weight of Jon’s responsibilities began to escape him, leaving his emotions to run rampant. He had just finished watering the horses for them to take their leave and turned to observe Daenerys on some peak surrounded by trees, her scarf wrapped tightly around her head, shaggy hat on and her pack secured at her hip. 

Strapping the horses to a nearby tree before making his way towards her, he commented, “You have astounding aim.”

He stood behind a slight indentation of land. Jon thought hills to be prominent in the Reach and rocks to be abundant in the Riverlands.

He was wrong.

The lands had just as many grassy plains and mounds and were just as fertile as the Reach.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at him and giving him a mock curtsey.  
“Where did you learn that?” His curiosity was prevalent as he took calm steps towards his silver Queen. She had been doing the same thing at every stop they made, finding a tree and practicing.

Her shoulders lifted and fell casually, eyes dancing about. “I anger often, as you know.” She twirled the retrieved blade between her fingers. It would be a decent skill to know. Any blade work would be useful for her to know, especially being on the road.

Jon wondered if his skittishness had affected her, for she had not been as keen on learning self-defense before. At least not to his knowledge. “Every time I hit the tree, relief comes over me. It calms me.”

He wondered if she meant that it makes her feel safe.

Daenerys threw the knife and sure as sure can be, she had not missed the target. “I like relief, so I don’t seem to miss.”

Jon gave her a forced smile with all his teeth to show his discomfort.

She snorted before he made to move closer.

Crouching, he lifted the bottom of her dress to take a look at her footing. _Good._ From there, he also examined how far from the tree she stood. _Considerable_. “How much distance can you place between you and the stump before you start to miss?’

“I do not really miss,” she looked at him haughtily.

Rolling his eyes, Jon stood, hands traveling to her waist before he guided her further back.

“Stand here.” He moved her form a few more feet back, ignoring the itch to touch her more. He needn’t touch her in the first place, so he reprimanded himself though he obviously ignored his own scolding.

She raised her eyebrows and squinted. “It is called throwing stronger and truer, Jon Snow.” She bit her lip as she threw.

He gritted his teeth as he watched her turn around with a triumphant smile.

“Are you good at everything you do?” he asked, annoyed, beginning his stride to retrieve the knife for her.

Confident as ever, she rang, “I try to be.”

“Do you stitch well?” he called back. _She had offered._  

“It is not my favorite leisure time,” she frowned, similar to Arya’s mope from when they were little.

“Sing?” he questioned, turning back to her.

“I do not believe I have a terrible voice,” she contemplated for a moment, though eventually sticking to her answer.

“Play an instrument?” Jon probed, handing her the blade.

“I can whistle on beat, can that count?” she enquired back, her eyes bright with humor. Jon shook his head. “Unfortunately, I did not have the coffers as a child to learn such but I can bang things together and make it sound decent enough for The Dothraki to dance to.” Daenerys eyed him. “They are actually quite particular about their music,” she sniffed.

He resisted laughing and continued his interrogation, “How many languages do you know?”

“There are several variations of Valyrian,” she offered, counting as if she were not entirely sure. With three fingers up, she proudly stated what he presumed to be the three in Valyrian, and then in common tongue, added, “I know them all.”

Nodding, she continued, “Common tongue and Dothraki as well.” _Obviously_. 

“Fluent?” Dothraki seemed to be guttural. She spoke it rarely, only to command her guards but not much in conversation. He had heard the language amongst her men. It was a harsh tongue but she nodded again, positively.

“Writing?”

“Poetry, stories, or accounts?” she asked before throwing the knife.

“Any of them.” Jon moved forward to retrieve it but she stepped past him, pushing him back in place.

He frowned at her not accepting his chivalry.

“Obviously accounts,” she waved her hand. “I suppose I can write some poetry. Valyrian is the true tongue for it.”

“Leading? Was that another talent you acquired overtime?” He stopped in front of her in time to see a sad look grace her features.

“I suppose, I did.” As quickly as it came, it passed. “I am good with figures too,” she bid.

“Is there anything you cannot do?”

“Like piss at dawn without my Lord Hand stumbling into my chambers prattling on about how immoral noblemen are and how untrustworthy whores are?”

Jon tossed her a look at the crudeness escaping her as she bit her lips, deadpanning. “Keep my armies together and safe. Take the iron throne…” she offered as she began to raise her arm to dart the knife once more.

Sighing, Jon stopped her, placing his palm on her wrist, lowering it. He wanted to tell her everything was fine, but he did not wish to lie in case it were not true.

She turned to him, curiously.

“Can you do this with more than one knife?” Jon began to reach at his belt pulling the others Gendry had given him, only leaving one at his side.

“I can attempt.”

“Here,” he offered her the knives. “You should learn how to swordfight. Defend yourself better.” He ignored her words. _She would get her bloody throne._ And if she was indeed a quick study and determined, she could pick up the skill easy enough. _And be well versed_ , he thought.

“And will you be teaching me?” she inclined her head towards him, her voice significantly low.

Jon swallowed.

It would take a considerable amount of time and practice. Perhaps even alone, which was not the wisest notion. “Is that what you wish?”

She was scrutinizing him, raking her eyes up and down, tipping her head sided to side before her lips widened into an impish smile.

 

 

***

 

 

They had been riding for hours before Jon decided to stop, finding a rather secluded stream. He had circled the area a handful of times, which awarded him a distasteful look from Daenerys. “You smell,” he shot at her.

Her entire face scrunched up, looking to him in disbelief. “I smell? You are one to talk,” she scoffed.

He nodded towards the river. The water was blue enough, he thought, getting off of his horse, tying the reigns quickly. It was chilly and going to get cold soon, he could feel it, now would be the best time to bathe as they were nearing the north.

“Are you trying to get me naked?” Her voice sang as she came to a stop near him.

His eyes rolled as he placed his hands at her waist, pulling her down roughly.

He wanted to make this quick, so they could get back on the road as soon as possible, only stopping because he was no longer sure how much longer they would be near this type of water. 

“Unhand me, you brute,” she protested shoving him away, playfully. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the tug at his lips, he turned her back to his front, locking her in his arms.

“I’m a brute now?” he asked her, his voice low in her ears.

“You are certainly a lot stronger than your size lets on.” Jon frowned at the smile in her tone.

She rubbed against his front before he pushed her away. “Does it always come down to this?” His voice was full of irony.

“You truly do not enjoy what you are good at?” she stepped closer to him, teasing.

Jon scoffed, shaking his head, beginning to turn away.

She caught his hand before he moved away and placed it on her neck. She then moved it down to her clothed breast. “Am I doing something wrong?” she asked him, sullen.

“No,” he swallowed, giving her a light squeeze, eliciting a breath from her before moving to the laces on the front of her dress that she had shown him how to untie. _For future reference_ , she had said. He pulled at it to relieve her of the garment, then turned her towards the water, so he can then tie her horse up.

“Are you taking first watch?” he heard her sigh, frustrated.

He smiled to himself. “Aye,” he called out as he glanced at her, and then back again when he saw that she was perched on a rock, naked as her first name day. 

“You are terrible at being a lookout,” she commented at his stare, removing her scarf. “You would not want someone to take my head in the middle of nowhere.”

He sighed, turning back, thinking of anything that would relieve him of the blood rushing to his groin. “Aye, Lord Tyrion would have mine if I let anything happen to you.”

“Or my children.” They rarely brought them up, especially after that one townsperson. 

“Aye,” Jon agreed, solemnly.

“I am teasing,” she told him, her voice only mildly hesitant. “They quite like you.”

“Do they now?” he appeased, making idle conversation while retrieving his map.

“They let you near me. Around them, at all.” There was a hint of confusion in her voice. He hummed in response.

Finding a sufficient enough rock, he unraveled the parchment to assure himself they were still heading in the correct direction. He prayed to the old gods that rain would not fall today. If they could make it to an area littered with some stones may haps they could find some form of a grotto. 

After a while of silence, he realized that she was not speaking. He turned to her quickly, careful not to linger in deciphering what she could have said last. She was eyeing him pensively when he said, “And they are not here.”

“Perhaps they think me to be safe with you.” He turned to her with a playful eyeroll, not giving away his fear. They were not here indeed. _Rhaegal did not even come._

He would protect her with everything in him for the trip unnerved him. He was absolutely careful about entering towns and passing roads, even sleeping. One false move, or a slight slip of tongue, she could die.

 _Unless her dragons decided to show_ , which would be unfortunate to anyone near the area.

“You still look but do not touch.” 

Completely forgetting that he had turned to her, he didn’t realize he’d been boring holes into her. “Aye, I reckon I have done enough touchin’.”

“I disagree.” _She would._ “Have you really?” she frowned.

“No,” he reluctantly admitted. He could feel her body all day and never be satisfied. He was awarded a wide smile before she submerged her body in the river.

Finally, she allowed the water to shield her perfectly plump breasts and milky white skin. “You are going to kill me,” he mumbled as he watched her rise from wetting her hair. 

“What was that?” she asked moving closer, running her finger through her white tresses. They had been laying limp under her scarf so long he forgot how abundant and long it was.

“Nothin’,” Jon shook his head.

“It will rain tomorrow,” she said softly, sniffing the air, floating under the rock he resided on. “We should continue riding until we find shelter or perhaps acquire a better tarp.”

 _So, I had been right._ He nodded but then gave her an odd look. “How do you know?” he asked.

“I can smell it in the air,” Daenerys spoke as if it was the most obvious thing. 

“How do you know it won’t rain _tonight_?” Jon squinted at her, rolling up his map. 

“The rivers are not turning yet,” she remarked with a wave of her hand. “I can still move about with ease.”

“You swim well too.” It was not meant to be a question though it came out as one as he watched her float. 

“Public bathing pools, beaches,” she bid. “The water is my friend.” 

She was swimming about. “Public bathing pools?” he questioned watching her.

“We were poor, my brother and I. Much to people’s disbelief, I was not born with a golden spoon,” she spoke loftily, as if the words she was saying were not sad. “You have already seen me exposed. Are you truly going to stay all the way over there?”

“Aye,” he told her gruffly, turning back around, smiling.

 

 

***

 

 

Sure enough, just as she had said, it poured the following day.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon had found them an opening just under some ridge. In about two days’ ride, they would happen upon another town. For the time being, they were stuck lest the horses risk sinking into the mud, which was the last thing they required.

Daenerys, who had been oddly delighted by the shower, had gone out for a few moments, much to his anger and dismay, and returned with a few rabbits.

He had looked at her oddly and she just stated she had ‘read a book.’ He watched her skin them with fascination, laughing when she struggled though it was not amusing to her. He’d offered to help, but she said that she could and would do it.

She had fucked up the first one, he noted and eyed her warily, offering her a hand, which she smacked away.

She finally did it right on the third and final one, which she said would be his as she eyed the raw flesh with tight lips. Though she did not share his enthusiasm, he was undeniably and pleasantly excited he no longer had to eat dried meat with hard bread.

He thought that she would come around after it cooked, but she still did not seem nearly as delighted as he was, staring at one of the legs with distaste.

“You don’t care for meat?” he asked, brow furrowed. He had noticed that she stuck with fruits and bread. He definitely noticed when he had run his hands along her body. She did not hold the weight she had moons ago when they had first lain together. 

“I can eat it,” she shrugged, tearing a bit off, placing a bit in her mouth.

“But you do not care for it.”

“I killed it, and skinned it. It had eyes and I looked into them.” She shook her head. Jon pursed his lips.

 _She could rain fire upon armies but dislikes hunting._ He tilted his head and contemplated why that shocked him. _Innocent animal. Not soldiers trained for war_ , he decided.

“Do not laugh at me,” she cautioned him, knowing that if he did not immediately smash his lips together as he just did, a snicker would escape him. 

“Here,” he offered her his bread, noticing she had finished hers first.

“I can eat it,” she protested, moving his hand away as he waved it towards her.

“What do you prefer, this,” he raised a rabbit leg to her, “Or that?” Jon lifted the bread.

Her lips tugged down as he shook the bread and the rabbit leg, teetered both hands.

She nodded towards the bread. 

“Aye, then, give it here.” He reached for her cooked animal.

“Can I have this piece though?” she pinched at a tough looking part.

Jon just shook his head, laughing. “I don’t even care for that piece. It’s too dry.”

Shortly after their meal Jon taught her all the ways in which she could do harm to a man, with a knife. Though it was not his area of expertise, he did know ways she could stand without being knocked over and the directions she would have to point her blade to be effective in killing.

She did not seem very pleased with the idea of killing but took the lesson with a determined seriousness. All playfulness disappeared when she had the knife in her hand pointed at him. He had not understood until his tunic had fallen open and she glanced at his chest.

Jon felt somewhat uncomfortable, at first, but somewhere along touching the ridges of her body and positioning her correctly, he had forgotten what had happened to him. It was as if the cold rainwater had entered the hole in the rocks they nested in.

Swallowing back both their unease, he attempted to smooth her through human anatomy. A stab to the liver would be fatal. So is the neck where he recommended slicing all the while concealing his dismay. Head, he did not advise because the knife could break before doing enough damage. If she could reach the eyes, he advised her to go for instead. The liver or lungs were the best options for her height and both were lethal blows, he explained, pointing to the areas, stressing the importance. He added that the person would suffocate or bleed out. And last was the heart; most people would not survive a stab in the heart, but armor would most likely be covering that and the lungs.

He focused on showing her how to push up in a specific direction, so that her blade penetrated the liver, how to get out of someone’s grasp and where to strike, scratch, bite and claw. Things he was glad to know she’d learned or had been taught.

“Grey Worm,” she revealed.

Jon frowned, making her frown. “I am not upset with him.”

“ _I_ am,” he clipped, almost childishly.

“You do not even know him,” she argued.

“I am still mad.” 

She understood and did not fault the commander, but his blunder could have cost them her life. He was also thoroughly upset with Ser Jorah Mormont as well. He had not seen anyone aid her at the Pit.

“She slept in his chamber, you know,” Daenerys started, turning away from him and gathering her blades. “While he was gone. Every night,” her voice was sad. “I had Qhono, normally Tyrion’s Dothraki guard-”

“I know him." 

Daenerys quickly turned around to face him with a smile. Qhono was a large man with a decent amount of hair and beard that rivaled his, even now, after it had grown. He was arrogant and biting, always had something to say, but he did it with humor and a type of mocking that did not entirely offend him.

“He is quite a handful.” Her eyes squinted. “And Sure Spear, one of Grey Worm’s trusted officers-”

Jon interrupted, attempting to understand the dynamic. “Her guard?” he questioned.

“Hero is her guard, he is second-in-command of the Unsullied, but left with Grey Worm,” she supplied, her eyes light. “I had Qhono and Sure Spear search for her for I had been seeking her company in my chambers for many cool and lonely nights. Never finding her, I had grown quite wary of her constant disappearance, my own mistrust plaguing me.” Jon frowned. Missandei was her most trusted advisor, Tyrion had said _. She did not fully trust anyone, still_. 

His lips tugged further and further down as she continued, “It was not until Lord Varys had come to the council room while I was reading and whispered that I would find her in a place that soothes her heart. I thought for hours, deciphering his riddle only to figure it out near dawn.”

Jon had grimaced for she was as clever as her Lord Hand. “You see, he can speak common tongue well enough because of her. Their bond is odd as Unsullied are taught to not feel anything. They were trained from youth to kill without hesitation. Potions were forced down their throat to not be laden with pain and yet he balked over her.” Her voice was wistful. “I think it to be quite romantic. When we were overseas, I encouraged their lessons because she seemed happy when she left the study."

He watched with concentration as Daenerys bit her lip before continuing, “After my night of strenuous contemplation, I finally figured it out, at dawn, the following day,” she repeated, focusing back on her original story. “I found her curled up next to one of his jerkins, in his chambers, sound asleep.”

She had turned back to strapping up her knives with care. “I imagine any man to love a woman in a time of war is quite disappointed. I suppose any man that brushes his duty aside, albeit, accidentally, for love, will be quite troubled with himself,” she paused. “I know him, and he at some point, if still alive, was thoroughly unhappy with himself, possibly near suicidal. I hardly think he needs our dissatisfaction as well.”

Jon was certain he heard her voice crack. “I know it to be instinct to gravitate towards what is in your heart. And love is a,” she started but stopped mid breath. “It is a convoluted thing.”

 

 

***

 

 

The rain fell faintly, pattering at the roof of the cave. Much to Daenerys’ surprise, the horses had not been startled enough to whinny through the night, standing rather hushed towards the back with what was left of their feed.

She had fallen asleep easily, even after hers and Jon’s poignant conversation. It was good rest coupled with, surprisingly, Jon’s soothing touches to her sore thighs and the melody of the storm. This rain seemed to relieve her, like it cleansed away all the impurities she believed she harbored. 

She had stood in it before he called her back in, reprimanding her about getting sick. She had been amazed that she had made it this long without becoming so as her body is not accustomed to the changing climate.

One day, it would be infinitely chilly. The next, significantly warm. _In the winter?_ She had questioned him. He had no answer, merely shrugging.

Now, rain poured endlessly, trapping them with what seemed to be no signs of relent. Not that she would have minded had she not been entirely responsible for tens of thousands of lives.

She had only awoken once to offer Jon relief, for he slept better when she was awake. But he had silenced her, sitting up and moving his hands to her ankles under the cover. She had moaned and rolled over on her stomach, pulling their sheet over her head to encase herself in her body’s warmth.

She had heard him chuckle before standing to, most likely, watch the rain fall and pace about as he normally did at night.

At some point, she knew she had nodded off, as the rain had fallen significantly harder than it had before. She was on her side and Jon was lying next to her, hand on her waist. She attempted to sleep but the stroke of his palm down her stomach thrilled her.

_Sleep is so sweet, though._

She groaned, rolling onto her back, eyes shut, ready to slap his hand away, but it moved effortlessly down her front, past her woolen breeches, to her center. She swallowed and wondered if he was conscious. _He is not usually so bold._

She bid her body to stay still as his hand caressed her womanhood languidly.

Biting back a moan, she shifted as his lips found hers. He knew she was awake because the kiss held sensuality, though soft, he still bit and suckled her.

“I want this,” he husked, his voice completely laced with his northern grit as he touched her. _He could have it._ “To taste.” _He could do that too._

There had been many times she had craved him; whether it was him stroking the scales of her dragon. Him wielding his sword. Sitting about, watching over her. Observing her in towns. Even as his eyes looked to her with irritation, always. She’d wanted him, yearned for him. But none of those moment compared to how her body seemed to tense and respond to his words like they did now.

Taking the arch of her back as sufficient enough permission, he kissed her lips once more before kissing down her neck, leaving a trail of wetness from his tongue down the base of her throat.

Daenerys whimpered as he removed his hand from her and began unlacing her dress to expose her breasts. She squirmed under his stare and careful hands, growing wet with anticipation as he took his slow, sweet, and maddening, time.

He had not even fully discarded her dress as his mouth came down upon one mound, swirling his tongue, nipping, sucking. She moaned as his hand firmly grasped the other, pinching at her nipple. She whimpered.

He loved the noise so, he bit gently at the one that resided between his lips making her groan out his name. He had switched between mounds before making his way down the front of her body, pulling her dress up, instead of removing it, only sliding her breeches down, much to her displeasure.

She grew frustrated and as she opened her mouth to tell him to take the ugly things off, she felt him inhale and glide his tongue over her. The sweet sound of his noises, the feeling of his warm tongue moving against her— the grumble died on her lips, her head falling back.

His tongue delved in and out of her, flittering across her folds, and sucking at her. She attempted to pull him up as she felt her legs begin to tremble, the hazy numb feeling beginning to surround her.

He only placed her palms to the back of his head.

Daenerys almost angrily asked him who had taught him to do such things.

Once or twice, Daario had attempted this, but not with nearly as much efficiency, always finishing within her, but _Jon Snow_. She let out a shaky breath as he lapped at her wetness, massaging her nub.

Lacing her hands within his dark curls that she had somehow managed to untie, she rolled her hips in a needy way. He moaned, encouraging her. She became dizzy as she moved against his face, his arms tightening against her hips, pushing at her stomach.

She was not sure that he meant to do so, but him pushing down on her lower body started the chain event of tensions tightly wound in her gut to uncoil.

Hips jerking frantically, her heart pounded in her ears, all pressure snapped in her belly as he began to hum against her. The rain outside the alcove droned out as her thighs tightened around his head. Everything around her began to shatter. She released a dangerously loud moan as she arched her back into completion.

Her entire body was in shock, only tremoring slightly in reaction as Jon placed a kiss to her lower half once more before removing himself from under her dress.

She watched him, his beard soaked with her juices, lay down beside her with a contented smirk. She was too dazed to move.

Her whole body vibrated with delight as she came down from her high.

When Daenerys finally recovered from her shudders, she turned over, reached for Jon whose length was hardened.

He swatted her hand away, grunting his protest. “Are you never satisfied?” There was humor in his voice.

Her face puckered, rolling over on her side. “Are you?”

“Aye,” he said gruffly, eyes closed. “I am spent.”

Her eyes traveled to his member once more before climbing on top of him, happily willing to satisfy him. But all he did was press her back and head to him, arm securely encompassing her body. “I find I slumber well after I have tasted the sweet and salt of your skin,” he murmured, tiredness seeping through his husky response.

She could feel him underneath her and it took all her might not to yell at him for waking her as he did, to rile her up and then not be able to have him deep inside her. To feel him spill into her.

She puffed out a protest from his smothering embrace and attempted to turn, mildly aggravated, but he was strong. And though her body wanted him to fill her, and she was upset he refused her pleasure, she begrudgingly admitted she was still intensely fond of his warmth. 

She would yield now, for he rarely slept soundly.

 

 

***

 

 

It was still raining when Jon awoke, sore.

At dawn, he had rolled over to find that the storms had not stopped and his Queen patiently eyeing him. He would have assumed that him pleasing her would have satiated her, but he was wrong once more.

Her eyes smoldered with heated lust, a deep, rich lilac that would stay seared into his mind for the remainder of his days. He remembered chuckling before laying on his back but heard her growl out an objection.

He had settled deep within her, thrice, that daybreak. 

He had tasted her salted honey flesh again and made her shudder until she refused to utter another complaint.

It had to be midday by now. “What are you doing?” he groaned, rolling over to view her seated, scarf secured, by the edge of the cave, with a book in her hands.

“Reading.”

Rolling his eyes, “What is it about?” he bit.

“The Valyrian Freehold— Old Valyria,” her voice rang out wistfully.

“Why would Sam give me a book about Old Valyria?” Jon contemplated out loud, searching for his smallclothes, tunic, and breeches.

“What were you having him search for?” her head rose, with sad eyes, shining with discomfort. He had noticed this happen every time he spoke Sam’s name.

“Ways to kill The Others,” he offered, tugging on his trousers, escaping her gaze.

“Well, these mention dragon lords, types of weapons— obsidian, Valyrian steel…” her voice trailed off, nonchalant.

“How to forge?” he rose to his feet though his body protested.

Standing in front of her, he stuck his hand out eager to see, now, what his friend had stolen from the realm’s most renowned library.

“Well…” her eyes met his, lips pausing momentarily, eyeing him. _His chest._ Swallowing, he took the book. “No. But there is a passage about it.” He frowned, looking at the image of daggers, swords, and other unearthly items made from the steel.

Nodding slowly, no longer excited about looking at the text, he handed it back

“It also mentions the regime,” she made a face of displeasure. “It is an old text, some of it is even in High Valyrian— loosely translated.” Her eyes squinted further into the book, “ _Terribly_ translated, actually.”

He shook his head with a laugh, shrugging on his shirt. Of course, she would, too, be snobbish about the way a book was inscribed. Jon began to wonder how he managed to keep people around him with such erudition. “What more must we know other than it was the greatest empire. It is not like we can recover any of it.”

“I know, but why?” she looked up at him, voice frustrated. “And why not? Who says?” Her voice flared with determination.

He was confused. _What is she asking?_  

“Not many men would step foot on the ruins,” Jon spoke slowly, careful not to make her run off with an argument. “Everyone would—”

“Everyone says the same nonsense,” she cut him off. _So much for not riling her up._ “The book illustrates how advanced in skill and knowledge Valyrians were,” she started. “That is what made their civilization the best; their open-mindedness, progressiveness and profuse amounts of magic.”

_Where does she get the vitality?_

“And when you speak of magic you mean—” he yawned, worn-out enough for the both of them.

“Warlocks, sorcery, witches, blood magic, dark magic, divination…” she trailed off, frowning. “It is common knowledge that the lands laid amongst magic.” Looking to him, she spoke softly, almost regretfully, “Look into my eyes, Jon Snow. They are not violet for no reason; sorcery runs through my veins.”

He had seen no one else with such vivid eyes. “People practiced it openly, fluently. And it comes with a price,” her voice wavered by the time she spoke the last word.

_Witches. Husband. Murder. Her child._

“Is there such thing as good magic then?” he blinked, trying to avoid her long stare.

“Perhaps,” she paused, turning a page. “But the most unfortunate always happens. There are always consequences to our actions,” she looked back to him, eyes darting to his tunic as if she could still see the scars through the fabric. “Life always comes with a price.” He stiffened.

 

 

***

 

 

“My Lady, I must urge you—” Lord Royce had stayed in Winterfell past the council meeting, much to Sansa’s dismay.

She had been conversing with Arya about the tone for future gatherings, the likelihood of a rebellion, and what to do about the lack of notice from Brienne.

Her brother, she knew, was terrible at returning messages. At least that was what she told herself. Brienne on the other hand, was of the utmost responsibility. Still, she had not heard one word.

The assembly at King’s Landing should have long been over. She should have already received word. And yet, she stood with nothing to tell the lords. Any of the lords. Even those that would protect her.

“I do not mean to overstep.”

“And yet here you are, overstepping,” Sansa turned around to face the pudgy man with a smile that she hoped was not derisive.

“It is duty to ready ourselves,” he began before she interrupted him. He had been attempting to meet with her for days, but Podrick, being the most loyal squire, had rebuffed him at every turn. But Podrick was not here currently, only Arya. How she wished she had not warned her to keep her manners in check.

“My Lord, how much do you know about the Night King?” Sansa asked him, thoughtfully, catching Arya shift further behind her to watch what she would call a scene.

“Just the stories, Lady Stark,” he swallowed the attitude she knew wanted to surface.

“And have you fought the army of the dead?” Of course, she already knew the answer. None of them had.

“No, Lady Stark,” he responded.

“Then that is all,” she dismissed him, turning away, eager to get out of the narrow hallway. 

“How can we fight them if we are not prepared?” he called to her, desperation stitched in his voice.

It was not fair, Sansa understood, but she had not the faintest clue who to call or trust. Who to turn to. She no longer had Lord Baelish’s words of experience. She did only as she could; begun selecting men she would send to the Wall, and who she would entrust to assess the southern territories on her behalf for word of anything.

“We need my brother,” she admitted, her tone laced with finality. “But I am more that confident in your ability to train your men in the meantime, as we wait.”

She went to turn away, but the man continued speaking. “If he does not return…” he sighed. “Please tell me you will think about it.”

“My Lord, I will consider your words.”

“You will?” He seemed so relieved, but Sansa did not desire to truly lie.

“No.” She turned from him, nodding to her sister to continue their stride towards the godswood.

“But you said—”

“You told me to tell you, as I did,” Sansa stated. Arya snorted. She glared at her sister before looking back at the lord before her. 

“That will be all, for now.” 

With that, Sansa resumed their walk, thankful, the silence leaving her to her own scattered thoughts.

The snow had mostly melted, forming light slush in certain areas of the castle. She had not minded, because not many people traveled this way, but it was the way of her and her siblings. Those who knew Winterfell. 

A lot of the people that currently resided there were new as most of the former servants were murdered by Ramsay Bolton or discarded by Theon.

She supposed she could attempt to send him a raven, but quickly shot down the idea, fearing what may have come of him, the iron islands, and the remainder of his family. Unless she was certain he was well and that the message would reach him directly, she could not risk it. 

She had relieved Podrick of his duty for she would be with Arya, and to be fair, Arya was a far superior warrior than Brienne’s squire. He seemed to be in agreement despite his frown. 

She had actually felt rotten as she dismissed him. She wondered if he had been keeping a keener eye on her in distress of what could have happened to Lady Brienne.

 _She could send Podrick south._ He would not leave her though, she dismissed.

“He is coming back,” she spoke as they entered the godswood.

“Are you telling me or yourself?” Sansa could hear the smile in Arya’s voice.

“You,” Sansa frowned at her own lie.

“I know that.” Arya rolled her eyes. She knew she was lying.

“How?” Sansa questioned. She had wondered what was wrong with herself. It was the two of them, Arya and Bran, once again, weird and such, against her.

“Bran,” Arya turned back, hiking through the snow, offering Sansa a hand with her woolen gown and furs. 

“You said it before Bran did.” Arya was absolutely certain as they had discussed what was to be said before the former council.

“I did not come back on word that my brother is here for me to not see him again.”

Sansa deflated. “I keep forgetting.” When their brother returned, she could be easily tossed aside as both Bran and Arya were home. Besides Robb, the three were the closest.

She swallowed her own pity.

“What?” Arya frowned at her as they reached the stones their father used to sit upon.

“How you must feel—” Sansa hurried to her, sweeping the dirt off for them to sit, without looking up. “To think about whether he will truly return after not seeing him for so long.”

“I don’t think about it. I do not feel. I _know_ he will,” Arya sat on the spot Sansa had cleared for them. “That is all,” she shrugged.

“You really are scared,” she commented after a heartbeat. Sansa froze. “Of what? Do you even want to be Lady of Winterfell anymore?” Arya’s eyes tightened.

Sansa was unsure of where the inquiry came from; the distance in her eyes, her exceptionally rigid posture or her standoffishness with everyone besides her sister and Podrick on occasion, but here was little use in lying about it.

“Not in this time,” she sighed, giving up on trying to hide her weariness. “He says this great war is coming. What do I know about that?” she looked towards her sister who acknowledged her with a raised eyebrow. “I am excellent with needle work, maintaining the castle, speaking on principles, politics, people. War?” Sansa shook her head with a bitter laugh. “War with undead creatures and no weapons to kill them? There has been no word from Dragonstone. He needs to come home.”

 

 

***

 

_The Third Week_

Jon walked into a tavern, Daenerys beside him, grasping at his arms, head down like a weakened, passive woman. He despised the act.

He masked his discomfort and accent when greeted by people. In fact, almost everyone turned as they walked in.

It was a small town on the countryside. He tried to steer clear of them, but they were in need of supplies and Daenerys fancied a drink of something that was not bitter ale, sour wine, or water. 

It was the least he could give her for she had denied every inn he had offered for them to stay at. But he did not like many eyes on him. They were wary as they turned back around to their gossiping.

They were so close to home, he told himself. So very close. The anticipation was radiating off of him.

Daenerys had urged him forward more, going towards a table but he gently guided her towards a secluded corner, close enough to the door and window, for a quick escape and enough view of the entrance so he could keep eye of any suspicious behavior.

She had gone to sit opposite him, but he pulled her to him, telling her to never turn her back to a door. He sat on the seat’s edge.

“Calm down,” Daenerys whispered in his ear. “You look like the mistrustful sort now,” she hissed. He rolled his eyes, nudging her further in with a head tilt for good measure, keeping a watchful eye around them.

A slim lady with dark hair and dark eyes came up to them, northern accent in tow, and asked what they would like, eyes darting around her. It unsettled him, so he shifted and ordered ale.

“And you, lass?”

Daenerys kept her head down. “A warm cider,” he said, and the lady nodded unfazed. He could almost feel his Queen’s frown from beside him.

“The lassie mute, eh? Lucky man.” A man with a greying receding hairline laughed a bit.

Jon did not, however. “She not?” The man’s smile disappeared, eyes shifting between the two of them, not oblivious to the discomfort he had just produced.

“Doesn’t really feel comfortable talking,” was all Jon said, hoping the rounding man would leave them be.

“Lucky lad,” he repeated.

Jon had wanted that to be it, for the man turned back slightly.

The town had been far too little for his liking. He avoided them because less people coming about meant for more conversation when some did. The pub was dingy, dark and full of old men and few women. A kid or two was about as well, so Jon assumed it to be a family establishment.

 “Where you from?” _Seven hells._

“Here and there,” Jon spoke, tersely. Daenerys elbowed him. “Around and about,” he added for good measure.

If she could, he knew she would scowl at him. She was far superior at handling people, even when she could barely speak. Her voice was too whimsical and song-like. Her tone made people desire to look at her and one glance, a clear look, would give them away.

“Testy one there,” the man chuckled nodding towards Daenerys. Jon attempted to give him a genuine smile. “Travelling then?”

Jon nodded, simply, kindly. He prayed. “I wish I were still young and healthy enough to do such.

Good you’re doing it while you still have the chance.”

“Papa!” A little boy came running.

“Aye, don’t tell him nothin’,” the lady came back with their drinks, yelling.

Daenerys seemed to find this funny as her body shook with light and muffled laughter. “He wants to tell his stories today. But we’ve had new heads about.” The lady pushed their drinks towards them, but was looking at who Jon assumed was her husband, waving her hands about. “No mean to be offendin’ thee,” she tossed at them with a loose smile.

It was polite enough, Jon thought and shrugged it off. He understood. He would not want unfamiliar people coming around his home either. “No trouble.”

“Since the capital shut down, us small folk been runnin’ about crazy,” the lady excused herself further.

Both Jon and Daenerys stiffened. They had not heard about that.

“It shut down?” Jon enquired as Daenerys squeezed at his thigh.

“Aye,” the lady affirmed. “How ye ain’t know?” She questioned them with a suspicious gaze. She had a northern hint to her voice, Jon noticed.

He had not initially taken stock, but he did notice her dark her and dark grey eyes. She looked significantly younger than who Jon supposed her husband to be.

“They are nomadic,” the man supplied, pushing at her side. Jon guessed that was him relaxing her.

“We were just there about a moon back,” he gave them an exaggerated truth. It may have been a bit over a fortnight ago. They had stopped traveling for only a few days. The information moved faster than he had expected it.

“So ye ain’t see the dragon lady?” The boy popped from behind his father from where he was hiding from his mother, Jon deduced that as well.

“Will you hush?” she hissed at him. Jon wanted to laugh at the irony. “You don’ know who may be lurkin’.” Her eyes seemed to blaze for the boy shrunk. He could not be older than, maybe ten years with dark brown hair and grey eyes to match. “Apologies sir, we be meanin’ no offense,” she apologized again.

“Mama, no one important comes about.” Jon smiled at him. _The child should really listen to his mother._ Daenerys beside him shook softly with the humor that was creeping onto his face.

“How’d you know that?” Her hands switched between laying on her hips and waving at her son to sit still.

“He’s right.” The old man leaned over and grabbed a part of her dress, leading her closer to him in a familiarity that Jon turned his head away for.

“You presume to think—” The woman’s voice hushed up.

“Come on, let him speak, it’s all he’s got right now. And I’m tired of havin’ him in my ear all night.”

“He should go to bed.”

“It’s just barely dark out. And it gets dark faster and I have finished all my chores early. C’mon,” the kid whined. “You told me no every day last week. Look, the lady is curious.”

Jon’s head snapped to the boy whose attention was on Daenerys who had only slightly turned her head. The child had a keen eye for catching small things.

Jon let out a frustrated sigh as she quickly leaned to apologize in his ears.

He did not want problems.

“Let him talk, so he can shut his mouth later. What’s going to happen? Ain’t nobody really ‘ere,” the man said through sips of his ale.

“A white coat or red coat can whip him through town,” she supplied, turning to walk away. “The Freys-”

“Have been gone, ain’t nobody seen ‘em and we are too far up the Riverlands for a white or red coat to be lurkin’ about,” he responded.

“Ye don’t know that.”

“Will you just let him do it,” the man pointed around to some of the men at the bar counter, “We have to suffer while ye off servin’ drinks.”

Some of the men raised a glass to him. “Well, then you serve the drinks and I’ll sit on me arse all night.”

“No one’s going to buy a drink from a fat bloke like me.” Jon looked to the man who was frowning at the amount of raised glasses, again, from the same men at the bar.

The woman looked at him from behind the counter and turned her back.

Jon returned his gaze to his glass, avoiding the boy’s despondent look.

Turning to Daenerys, he gently put his hand above the one rested on his thigh and took another sip of his drink. It was not bad, he decided before he heard the woman speak once more.

“Go,” she said, as she neared, jutting her thumb backwards to where Jon assumed the boy normally told his stories. “If something happens to him,” she warned her husband leaning over the table.

“Nothin’ is going to happen,” the man swallowed the new drink handed to him lazily.

“Thank you!” the boy hugged her quickly before moving forward. Turning back around, sheepishly, he asked, “Mama, can I still be havin’ my desert?”

“Boy, will ya.” The man shoved him forward, hard, giving his wife a bashful smile.

“But I think she made puddin’.” Jon finally gave a light chuckle, shaking his head. “She hardly makes that- oi!” The boy hurried away from his mom who looked as if she wanted to take a swing at him.

With one final glare, she left.

“Children. You don’t have any?” the man looked at Jon.

Jon swallowed as Daenerys tensed. “No.”

“Lucky.” _Hardly_. “They take all your energy. Suck the youth from ya. It’s what makes them so active-”

“So, as you all know. We are at war-” Jon sighed as the boy began his story, standing atop a table, cutting his father off.

Jon thought to leave now and pondered how he may do it in a way to least raise further suspicion. While he was not interested, he noticed Daenerys shift closer. But Jon also knew townspeople stories could range from familial ones to satirical politics and at the end of the day, that is what she was to them. What he was to them. Just another monarch. Another politician.

“Shut it,” a drunk man, slouched in another booth called out.

“Aye! You shut it,” the boy retorted, offended. “’Tis the war of two queens and two kings,” his lips curled.

Jon tossed another look to Daenerys who just leaned in closer. He should have been doing as she was: paying attention, listening, if he was to stay, for this was what the common folk discussed with importance. He should understand what they gossiped about and how they did so. But today was not the day to delve into the minds of the common folk for something was itching at him. Casting another look towards the door, he had a strong desire to just flee with Daenerys.

“Kid has quite a big imagination. Only child and such,” the man interrupted his thoughts yet again. “I took him to the capital a few weeks ago. When the Targaryen Queen called for that gathering, they said,” the man frowned. Daenerys did not shift this time though. Jon wondered if she was that good at steeling herself or if she was simply listening to the boy prattle on.

“I was mindin’ my own, looking for a space to put up shop, expand me business, make some money and the whole sodding city descends into chaos. Almost lost him,” he pointed towards the boy with a frightened look, shaking his head. “Gave the old lady a right fright. But we made it out and on to the King’s Road before everything went to shit,” he let out a breath.

“But now he’s been tellin’ all these new stories,” the old man gave Jon this look to which he nodded, pretending to understand, eyes darting to the door quickly in distrust. “Always been smitten with books. Even steals ‘em. Who in seven hells, steals books?” He asked Jon, curious.

He wanted to say Sam. Sam steals books. The Queen sitting beside him might have as well. For that, Jon could give the man a genuine smile of confusion for he did not understand either.

“Now he has all these queer notions in his head.”

“And the Night King.” Jon’s head snapped up to the boy who was moving animatedly.

“It’s a tall tale,” his mother interjected while hastily telling him to mind himself, for the table was rickety.

“The King in the North doesn’t think so,” the child protested. Jon disguised his tension well.

Every bone in his body screamed for him to leave once more.

 _This is what happens_ , he repeated to himself. _Common folk spoke on these matters too_ , he reiterated harshly in his mind. Not to the lengths that he and his advisors did, but this was just as much their problem as it was his and Daenerys’.

“He even sailed to convince the Targaryen Queen and Queen Cersei!” The others in the tavern paid him no mind- they had heard the story a long while ago.

It had to have been a frequent occurrence, his stories. _Except for the last few weeks_ , the boy had said. “I’m tellin’ ya. The sigils were in the capital. I saw the armies.”

Jon had almost felt bad, if it had not been him the boy was speaking of, rendering him a type of nervous that he had not been before.

“The King in the North’s army is in the north where he should be as well,” one man from the back shouted and the another man agreed.

Jon gritted his teeth.

He wanted to leave, but the stain of wariness and the possibility of a fight did not sit easy with him. Perhaps a while ago they could have slipped past-. _no_ , he thought tiredly. They were stuck, and the Queen did not seem to mind. At least _not yet._  

“And now he’s gone. Nowhere to be found,” the boy paused, frowning. “They say he was killed in the massive fire that burned the Pit to the ground,” his voice grew low. “Some say he and the Foreign Queen ran away together.” Jon swallowed.

In recent times, he had caught himself wishing he could just take her and his family to Essos and make a new life. Run away from his problems for once.

“And others say, he just ran as the Targaryen Queen perished by the sword of The Mountain. Ser Gregor Clegane, Queen Cersei’s own sworn guard.”

The boy was quiet for a moment. A dramatic pause before he began speaking energetically once more, “But I don’ think so,” he shook his head. “Not after the Battle of the Bastards.”

Jon stiffened, sighing, as he listened to the boy relay his own nightmares. “He is the greatest swordsman to walk the earth.” Jon scoffed quietly. 

When he was younger, those words, he would have been most pleased to hear coming from anyone. Now those words left a lump of disgust in his stomach.

“He’s leading the Great War,” the boy nodded his head.

“So then, where is he?” another man from the bar barked, turning around.

Jon was not entirely sure if the man was antagonizing him or egging him on to continue. He now understood why his mother was so worried. Had they been any other monarch and not been traveling in secrecy, the boy would have been whipped or his tongue might’ve been cut.

“But the King of Winter is comin’.” Jon could smile at the boy’s blatant disregard. “And people say he is the only one that can stop him. Not even Queen Cersei can. Or the Dragon Queen. And the dragons are real.” He added the last bit for good measure, nodding his head with a proud smile. “I seen one!”

“And there he goes,” his father shook his head with a light chuckle. “I told him it was just a cloud or a dark cast. Those can happen, ya know?”

Jon did know. Had he been one of the townsfolk he’d believe that too. But he was not. And he had touched one and had their mother beside him.

Her hand had not left his leg, but she had been intrigued, still leaning on the table, her drink only partially drunk. She was captivated by the boy.

For what it was worth, Jon thought him to be absolutely dynamic. 

“But he needs help,” the boy began solemnly, interrupting his thoughts further. “Queen Cersei, she is a protector. She does what she must to ensure the wealth of the crown.”

“Not for us.” That man could have been hung.

Ignoring him, smartly, the boy continued, “So we don’t get into war with the foreign invaders.”

Daenerys could have the next man that spoke beheaded as well. “They are here.”

She sucked in a breath as the boy continued. “Well, of course, because of the Dragon Queen. But the people of Essos say she’s a great queen, freeing people from their chains, makin’ people less divided. Equal.”

She released a quiet breath. Jon fixed his eyes around them, careful that no one heard. “They say she brings great change,” the boy paused. “With dragons!”

“That can burn everythin’,” his father seemed to humor him.

“Aye, but still,” the boy broke character, dismissing his father. “She can command them, ride them,” the boy looked down. “They say she is the most beautiful woman in the entire world.” 

Jon could not disagree, but Daenerys stiffened. Her façade had been impeccable. He was not sure as to why _this_ part bothered her. Well, he knew but could not understand. Her beauty was mesmerizing, and townspeople talked. She knew that, told him as much. This was all they could do besides fight their wars, harvest crops and raise livestock. Jon frowned, glancing at her as she shrunk.

“And there goes the man in him,” the boy’s father smiled jauntily.

“They say she is made up of stars and magic. That she wields light in her touch. That every man that comes across falls to her feet. They fall in love,” the boy seemed out of breath, speaking devotedly.

Jon snorted out a chuckle, releasing his earlier tension, shaking his head until the boy continued, “They say she bewitched the King in the North for he has not been home in many moons.”

She finally removed her hand from his thigh, sitting back.

“Maybe he was bein’ held captive,” his mum skirted past the table, glancing at him reproachfully.

“Or maybe he wasn’t, mother,” he made a face at her. “But one thing’s for certain. She has great big beasts,” he bobbed on. “Power flows within her and it’s only a matter of time. She can unleash dragon fire upon this land and call it rain.” His voice was wistful. “As beautiful as they say she is, she is deadly.”

The boy was not wrong.

She could put ends to kingdoms in a blink of an eye, but she was not like that.

“But Winter is here, true and true, we all saw the white raven.” The child jumped off of the table and began walking around. “And everyone says it’ll be the longest. That time will disappear, days will become nights, and nighttime is full of dangerous things—”

“Sometimes I wonder if the nonsense tales he tells are true.” The room had been drained of any sort of easiness it once had. Even the father turned grim. Jon could give the little boy credit. He had the room hanging on the trueness of his last words despite their earlier nonchalance. “We heard stories of dragons but that comes from the mouths of scared men, men that have seen much death. Ye see, my wife is northern, left some time back to make a better life south with me. We should be fully moved soon. And now there is talk of dragons and a new ruler,” the old man shook his head, motioning for his wife to bring him another drink.

“I take the child down there every time I be doin’ business now and he always has a song to be sung.”

“You don’t believe it?” Jon turned to the man, masking himself to the best of his ability, hiding his strange mixture of exasperation and newfound interest.

“Which part?” the man snorted.

“Any of it?”

“We know the King in the North is no longer in the north.” His wife came and poured him another drink, motioning for the boy to stop pestering some old man for money for his story.

“We know there was some big gatherin’ south. We saw the foreign invaders; horse lords coming to kill us and rape our women and eunuchs about the Reach.” _The Unsullied were in the Reach. Someone had to be commanding them, then. “_ The northerners are afraid, according to my traders running about, gathering supplies for winter. It could make sense, but really? 

The old man raised his eyebrows at Jon and let out a long sigh. _“_ Dragons? Death marchin’? A white-haired woman with purple eyes, and no one has seen her?” The man grunted. “Purple eyes. There is some Valyrian blood in people, but silver hair? Ain’t never seen silver hair.” The man shook his head, taking another sip.

Jon nodded. “Yellow hair, aye. Silver, no,” he waved his hand in dismissal. “Horseshit, it has to be. Aye lassie.” Jon looked at Daenerys whose hand had been gripping the table, her head still somewhat bowed. “You look affright. Don’t be listen’ to him. You been on the road, long enough by the look in this lad’s eyes. I’m sure you seen it all.”

The boy juggled a purse in front Jon. “They are real, father. I bet you she seen them too, right m’lady?” Before Jon could reach into is cloak, Daenerys had already nicked him for some change, offering it to the boy. “Watch, they are going to fly right on by with all her soldiers and she’s going to fight the Great War north. Then you will see,” he gave his father a pointed look before thanking him and Daenerys.

“You should be frightened of them. And the dragons,” the boy’s father chastised. “You sound like you want her as Queen.”

The boy shrugged.

The father’s chest puffed out. “What do ye think is going to happen after this ‘Great War’, eh?”

“She will probably continue to conquer the Seven Kingdoms all over again just like her forefathers.” The simplicity in the response took Jon aback. How easy the child was to accept change while the father reddened.

“Aye, that’s what we need, another Targaryen monarch. I remember King Aerys. I remember that war, did me enough damage.” The man patted his leg that Jon had not noticed to be stumped. “Mad as mad can be. And you can’t say no to monsters.”

The old man’s face puckered. “It doesn’t matter who’s on top for us people down here. I don’t need my family to die,” he sighed. “We just make our money, contribute to society and go. That’s all we can do,” he sought Jon’s agreement, to which Jon nodded in understanding. “Small folk don’t know none of those fancy rich people stuff nor do we care, we are just trying to survive.”

 

 

+

 

 

Daenerys had refused Jon’s next invitation for an inn. Again.

He was not surprised.

He thought it was becoming too cold to lay outside, but she had denied the offer regardless.

Clutching a pack of supplies to his side, together they walked in a silence that Jon could only describe as embarrassed, hurt and ashamed. He had not thought much into the man’s harsh honesty nor the boy’s wistful ones. They were not far off from what he had once presumed and what the northerners believed, but he supposed after being isolated and seemingly free for so long, hearing it could be shocking. He hadn’t wished to hear it himself.

Her stride was not one of pride. Though her shoulders did not sag, she seemed lifeless, moving sluggishly and in a daze as they found somewhere to set up camp. 

Jon had little idea what to say to comfort her that she did not already know, that he had not already uttered to her long before. He tried to rack his head for anything that may balm the pain visible in her eyes. 

Her entire movement was against townspeople and smallfolk feeling as if they were nothing. Jon knew she believed they had a voice, as she had. They just needed to find it. Fight back. Hearing someone feel enslaved is precisely what she despised. Whether it a person or a system.

Daenerys was straightening their sheets down as he started to light a fire. They would not make full camp for the rain had since let up. They could not stay here.

Jon gathered that the more they pondered politics, they realized that no matter how much they despised playing the game, it would eventually come down to taking part in it, in the end. And that they had to find a system in which fairness was prevalent for the one that they have now is challenging.

_Once again, Tyrion’s assessment is seemingly correct._

Laying down, Jon knew he would not sleep, but he wanted to pull her close to him so that she would understand she was not alone.

He had not wanted to go into town, but for an odd reason, he felt he needed to in addition to not wanting to disappoint her hopes in something warm to drink that was not made from rain water and rabbit bones.

Jon turned his face to her as he heard her mumble words in a different tongue. He hummed, not knowing what she’d said. 

“If my dragons are monsters so am I,” she whispered before turning away. They had not spoken much of what happened at the Pit. He dared not think anything other than her temper had gotten out of hand for the idea that the dragons could cause such devastation and there was not a thing she could do to stop it was too unsettling for this journey. He simply told himself that the dragon knew her enemies. Perhaps they could read minds. Or anything other than the former.

“So are we. So are they,” she uttered, voice hoarse with hurt. “We are all capable of destruction.”

 

 

***

 

 

She and Jon had been alternating between duties fairly. Today, he insisted on her watering the horses. _Insisting_ was something he had never done. Daenerys’ forehead crinkled though she dismissed it. _He was most likely just tired._

They had gotten a considerable distance from that town, to her relief. When he tried to speak to her about what happened the following day, she had waved him off, hoping to soothe her bruised ego, and attempt to think of ways she could help.

They had not been the only ones. She had spoken, well, the people spoke to her rather, as she tried market food and went through other wares. Many people were quick to discuss and the underlying resentment towards not only her family but the Lannisters as well.

She had taken note, gathering what information she could on what had happened in the Pit and the common folk’s attitudes. None of them were as frank as the boy and his father. Definitely not an entire story with possibly accurate accounts. _It could have been worse,_ she thought. _It could have all been lies._  

A lie would not have wounded her so.

She was not in the position, currently, to tend to every country or smallfolk, as they were to be at war. Eventually, it would be addressed. If they were to win.

She wished she could have given them something, anything besides coins to pacify the frustration of being under a government that would never spare them the slightest bit of assistance.

That night she thought of how many people were far worse, with no means to move or even have shelter. _Especially come winter, where many will most likely freeze,_ according to her northern brood. 

Jon had not looked concerned with the words of the man, which meant he was not at all surprised.

That did not shock her either. He would know.

Although she had been born on Westerosi land, she was raised away from it. He would understand their fear and reservations. But he was no craven and was highborn. A bastard, but a highborn bastard.

She stroked her spotted mare, which was considerably mild tempered, before pulling her and his cattle away from the creek. Jon would normally not allow her to wander this far off alone, especially without complaint.

 _It is early morning_ , she reasoned with herself.

Nonetheless, it started to trouble her the more she stood idly.

She let the horses graze at grass for a few more moments before shrugging on her cloak and pulling them away to return to where they had slept.

It was a serene walk, one that she had needed from nights full of her undesirable thoughts and Jon’s thrashings.

Daenerys had thought her dreams to be significantly worse until she truly understood how violent his would become and then how emotional he’d wake up to be after noticing he may have disturbed her.

She did not care for herself but for him. No matter what she did, on some nights, they would not rest.

She was no more than a quarter mile away when the hairs on her back began to rise.  
She heard clashing.

Their small fire had gone out and the sound of blades rang through the air.

Tightening the scarf under the hood of her cloak, her pace increased and she walked to an ideal spot to lace the horses before cautiously walking towards the noise.

Daenerys understood that the most intelligent option, the option her Lord Hand, advisors and Jon would have preferred, was for her to take the pack from his horse and mount hers and keep moving. It was something neither she nor Jon had discussed, but it was somewhat implied. Her being the last hope and all. 

Had she not been who she was, she would have turned away and prioritized the mission of getting to Winterfell. But his life was important, too. And she knew that the sounds were coming from where they had rested.

The Queen racked her mind for who it could be. Perhaps someone from that town they had visited or some lonesome travelers. As she neared and peered from behind the tree, she realized they were just men, four of them, with another, already dead.

Gripping two knives in her palms, she watched as one grabbed hold of Jon. She refrained from releasing a terrified breath and steeled herself. _Compartmentalize._  

The act of separating herself from her feelings was something she had not done for some time. It felt odd for her to become numb. It was not a normal detachment; however, it was like holding sand for she could feel her grip on it but speckles of her feelings continued to slip past her no matter how tight she held.

Swallowing her anxiety, her eyes squinted at the situation.

Jon’s sword had fallen, and he was locked from the back, struggling. Two stood on either side while one was standing in front of him. _Perhaps questioning him_. They were not familiar to her, but Jon did not look alarmed. His eyes only gloomed with darkness and a hostility she had never seen.

It frightened her- he looked as wild as her dragons.

In a quick move, one of the men tugged at his jerkin and slashed at his tunic, revealing the scars that not even they had spoken about. His eyes were not sad. They were not cast down nor discomforted. They were full of malice. Jaw clenched and face red, Jon seemed to say something that got him a blow across the face.

The breath she held in finally escaped her.

Cursing herself, she attempted to still and blend in, but she knew it would not work when one of the men was commanded to check on the noise she had made.

Thinking abruptly, she decided to crawl out further away from the horses and deeper into the trees, gripping the knives. She huddled near some shrubbery and rocks, positioning herself so her back would not be turned as he came. She hoped that he would not be smart enough to come from upstream as it had a good vantage point. 

Daenerys listened. It was quiet save for the steps of his boots and the clanking of his sword. As the noise grew, something caught in her throat and her eyes began to sting. She thought about everyone that depended on her to survive and started to shake. She bowed her head.

“You over there!” The man shouted. She did not make any attempts of shifting her body. 

Curling into herself, she made her body shake further. “You!” He was standing in front of her.

Ashamed, she thought he would smell worse, vile and disturbing, but he just reeked of ale and hay. He kicked her, and she tried not to groan as the blow could have done worse damage, but it just forced a change in her position.

Her hand shot out to catch her shifting form.

“I knew yer a woman,” he said as if poison touched his lips. “Get up.”

Gritting her teeth, she began to rise, carefully and cautiously gripping her knife in her other hand. As she rose, he stepped closer, and just close enough so that she could look up, her violet eyes full of aggression met his blue shaken ones.

Taking his moment of shock as an opportunity, she stepped forward, and jutted her knife into him as Jon had taught her days before. The man gasped and struggled before her, but she slipped past him and what little armor he had and side stepped his sword, making sure to curve her knife upward so it could hit an organ of importance. At least she hoped.

Doubling over, she was careful to cover his mouth with her trembling hand and returned his kick straight to his ribs. The satisfaction that coursed through her startled her as she moved both knives and slit his throat with shaky hands. 

Daenerys watched the body fall from her grasp with a horror that slammed into her as realization of what she had just done set in.

_Compartmentalize._

She swallowed all the other emotions that bubbled in her throat. 

She wished she had time to ask him questions, to not kill him, _but Jon_. Jon could be dead. She did not look back as she ran towards their camp, almost forgetting about the three men that remained. Crouching behind shrubs she peeked at the situation only to see the men look uneasy and Jon with a bloodied face.

She was careful. Very careful with sure steps. If she could just-

“You!”

A man to her left shouted. Her head snapped up and her body tensed, quick to. _No more hiding._ She stepped out into the open and casted a quick glance towards Jon, who finally looked fearful.

The man who seemed to be interrogating him turned around.

She darted her eyes between both of them who froze, similar to the other man. _Good._

She took one of the knives and looked at Jon, tilting her head, the same way he had when they were at the tavern to nudge her over. He did not respond. The man in front of him started walking towards her. She did the movement twice more before Jon caught on and leaned to his right in time for her to angle and dart the knife, harsh and steady, towards the man behind him.

And she never missed.

Jon, who had been somewhat deflated, had collected himself and grabbed one of the swords, Longclaw in one of the other men’s hands.

Noticing her direct hit to the face of the other man, only the man to her left had stopped. This one, the one who interrogated Jon charged at her.

She only had one knife left, and it would not do against Valyrian steel. Or a man twice her size charging at her. A moving target that was not a small animal, she could not do. Daenerys understood her limits.

She took quick steps back, praying not to fall. Perhaps if she ran fast enough, she could get to the horses.

_No._

The man was too near. He was close enough to where she could have given a startled cry had Jon not effectively sliced at him and then once more to the last remaining one that had come to him from the back.

He made it look chillingly easy. And he did not stop after, not as she had.

The Queen knew it was wrong to feel satisfied and impressed when the grim look that had shown very little in the last few days returned. He looked ill. Miserable.

He stepped over the body and towards her, pulling her up to him. He was careful not to bloody her but his embrace was one of terror. Jon cradled her to his scarred chest and kissed the scarf that covered her head. They stayed like that until his breath evened out.

She was fine. She had not been tortured. She had not been interrogated and stripped to reveal what seemed to be the cause of his most desolate face.

When he finally released her, she thought he would press his lips to hers, but he seemed to stop himself and instead turned around, looking at the bodies.

 _Try not to kill anyone_ , Gendry had cautioned.

He stared at the mess they created and released a harsh breath, clutching at his side. Daenerys moved towards him, but he shook her off, bending to pick up his sword and walk over to sheath it once more.

Daenerys wracked her mind for what they could do to the bodies. They were a little over half a day’s ride to the next town. It would be too close for them to burn the bodies without the air smelling or the rain that looked to be coming, putting out the fire.

There was not much space to hide them nor did they have the tools to bury them without it taking hours. _Time._ They scarcely had it.

Jon sat down on a fallen tree, looking to rest as he shook his head, closing his garments back up. She swallowed, taking in the cuts on his cheek and grimaced at the dripping blood from his nose. She wanted to say something but nothing came to mind. It was not his fault.

It wasn’t hers either.

Picking her head up, an idea came to her as Jon rubbed his face.

She began to run off to retrieve the man she had knocked down, much to Jon’s worry.

“Wait!” she called to him, turning to wave him down.

She prayed to whatever gods Jon seemed to believe in, that this man could not withstand a blade to the throat or that she had gone deep enough as she retraced her steps. Perhaps she could have used his help for the body was surely to weigh a lot.

When she found it, she looked for anything that would be of use. Finding nothing, she decided it would be a good idea to slip his cloak under him and use that as an easier way to drag him.

She had made it more than halfway back before Jon rushed to her, staggering a little, before shoving away her hands, scowling at her.

Shrugging it off, she tugged back at the man’s cloak and encouraged him to pull, making the body far lighter. “How would it look if they fell fighting each other?” she asked, eyeing him apprehensively. 

His features relaxed, just slightly, and looked at her as if she had grown an odd limb. She gave him a tight smile.

The air smelled thick with the promise of a rain shower by the time they were done. “Ride hard,” he told her. “Don’t look back.”

Daenerys nodded and did as instructed, ignoring the pain in her side that had finally set in after the adrenaline had worn off.

They seemed to be making good time until she noticed Jon falling behind on his mount. They had been riding for hours and he was hurt. She wanted to stop, but there was no cover and the rain was beginning to fall at severe strength. _A little longer_ , she told herself stealing worried looks at him.

Slowing down to observe him, he looked pale. 

She swallowed. She had been through his before.

Dread caught in her throat as she slowed his horse with her own mare. Jon lifted his head sluggishly. His eyes were glassy as she straightened her arms to his form. She could not believe she had not noticed the blood.

_No. There was no blood before. Not like this._

“Jon,” her voice shook.

“Keep going,” he rasped out, looking about to fall.

_No. Please, no._

“Jon!” she cried out, jumping from her horse to fully halt his. Her hands reached upwards, frantically checking his body for the stab or cut wound she knew she would find. It was the only one that was new, _dark… Infected?_ , and bleeding. She’d counted before.

“Jon,” she called his name again, petrified.

He gasped in pain as he moved to hover over his horse, similar to the way he looked returning to Eastwatch.

 “We have to keep going.” It was all he was able to rasp out and Daenerys’ entire body surged into a panicked action. She pulled what remained of their coins from his back into her cloak and secured his body.

Pushing forward, she pulled at all feelings of dread and tried shoving them into the depths of her mind for later review, but they fought her, repeatedly snapping to the forefront of her mind.

 _Compartmentalizing_ , her act of sorting through her mind was entirely futile for her feelings seemed to run as boundless as the narrow sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it, thank Iane who messaged me on tumblr a few days ago and I immediately got anxiety and needed to post this so this is why this is up lmao 
> 
> Iane, if you are reading this, I will reply to you when I finish my paper D:
> 
> She has also informed me of some questions that you guys might have, and they will get explained as the story progresses. I write in bunches/parts and not for chapters unfortunately. But, especially regarding the boy in this chapter, I promise you that he will be explained if not in the following chapter, the one after that.
> 
> If you think you know where he's getting his info from or anything having to do with his relevance, shoot your theories below! I would love to read later.
> 
> Also apologies, I normally reply to everyone but a few chapters back, I needed to take a break because I found myself getting discouraged and questioning whether or not the story and my writing was still any good, which is part of the reason why this is so late (it's finals week- is the other part). 
> 
> I am normally able to write a lot and decently fast but I kept questioning myself so I couldn't finish which definitely messed my schedule up but nonetheless, drop comments, I promise I will get to them. I will, I will. They are important to me! <3 Thank you to those who are still around and apologies to those I have left hanging for so long.


	8. Ears to The Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You were wrong you know.”
> 
> She groaned. 
> 
> “Pardon?” she yawned, not even bothering to open her eyes.
> 
> “The last King in the North was not Torrhen Stark. It was my brother, Robb Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies!
> 
> I studied abroad for a month, plus the chapter was really long for Iane and then I was a mess with work but I do hope you like it.
> 
> Once more, big shoutouts to Iane-Casey for being the best beta ever because I never make it easy<3
> 
> If there are typos, that is on me because the chapter had some heavy post beta editing.
> 
> Enjoy my loves!

**Part II**

 

 

 

 

> **_ Previously... _ **
> 
> She and Jon had been alternating between duties fairly. Today, he insisted on her watering the horses.  _Insisting_  was something he had never done. Daenerys’ forehead crinkled though she dismissed it.  _He was most likely just tired._
> 
> They had gotten a considerable distance from that town, to her relief. When he tried to speak to her about what happened the following day, she had waved him off, hoping to soothe her bruised ego, and attempt to think of ways she could help.
> 
> They had not been the only ones. She had spoken, well, the people spoke to her rather, as she tried market food and went through other wares. Many people were quick to discuss and the underlying resentment towards not only her family but the Lannisters as well.
> 
> She had taken note, gathering what information she could on what had happened in the Pit and the common folk’s attitudes. None of them were as frank as the boy and his father. Definitely not an entire story with possibly accurate accounts.  _It could have been worse,_  she thought.  _It could have all been lies._  
> 
> A lie would not have wounded her so.
> 
> She was not in the position, currently, to tend to every country or smallfolk, as they were to be at war. Eventually, it would be addressed. If they were to win.
> 
> She wished she could have given them something, anything besides coins to pacify the frustration of being under a government that would never spare them the slightest bit of assistance.
> 
> That night she thought of how many people were far worse, with no means to move or even have shelter.  _Especially come winter, where many will most likely freeze,_  according to her northern brood. 
> 
> Jon had not looked concerned with the words of the man, which meant he was not at all surprised.
> 
> That did not shock her either. He would know.
> 
> Although she had been born on Westerosi land, she was raised away from it. He would understand their fear and reservations. But he was no craven and was highborn. A bastard, but a highborn bastard.
> 
> She stroked her spotted mare, which was considerably mild tempered, before pulling her and his cattle away from the creek. Jon would normally not allow her to wander this far off alone, especially without complaint.
> 
> _It is early morning_ , she reasoned with herself.
> 
> Nonetheless, it started to trouble her the more she stood idly.
> 
> She let the horses graze at grass for a few more moments before shrugging on her cloak and pulling them away to return to where they had slept.
> 
> It was a serene walk, one that she had needed from nights full of her undesirable thoughts and Jon’s thrashings.
> 
> Daenerys had thought her dreams to be significantly worse until she truly understood how violent his would become and then how emotional he’d wake up to be after noticing he may have disturbed her.
> 
> She did not care for herself but for him. No matter what she did, on some nights, they would not rest.
> 
> She was no more than a quarter mile away when the hairs on her back began to rise.  
>  She heard clashing.
> 
> Their small fire had gone out and the sound of blades rang through the air.
> 
> Tightening the scarf under the hood of her cloak, her pace increased and she walked to an ideal spot to lace the horses before cautiously walking towards the noise.
> 
> Daenerys understood that the most intelligent option, the option her Lord Hand, advisors and Jon would have preferred, was for her to take the pack from his horse and mount hers and keep moving. It was something neither she nor Jon had discussed, but it was somewhat implied. Her being the last hope and all. 
> 
> Had she not been who she was, she would have turned away and prioritized the mission of getting to Winterfell. But his life was important, too. And she knew that the sounds were coming from where they had rested.
> 
> The Queen racked her mind for who it could be. Perhaps someone from that town they had visited or some lonesome travelers. As she neared and peered from behind the tree, she realized they were just men, four of them, with another, already dead.
> 
> Gripping two knives in her palms, she watched as one grabbed hold of Jon. She refrained from releasing a terrified breath and steeled herself.  _Compartmentalize._  
> 
> The act of separating herself from her feelings was something she had not done for some time. It felt odd for her to become numb. It was not a normal detachment; however, it was like holding sand for she could feel her grip on it but speckles of her feelings continued to slip past her no matter how tight she held.
> 
> Swallowing her anxiety, her eyes squinted at the situation.
> 
> Jon’s sword had fallen, and he was locked from the back, struggling. Two stood on either side while one was standing in front of him.  _Perhaps questioning him_. They were not familiar to her, but Jon did not look alarmed. His eyes only gloomed with darkness and a hostility she had never seen.
> 
> It frightened her- he looked as wild as her dragons.
> 
> In a quick move, one of the men tugged at his jerkin and slashed at his tunic, revealing the scars that not even they had spoken about. His eyes were not sad. They were not cast down nor discomforted. They were full of malice. Jaw clenched and face red, Jon seemed to say something that got him a blow across the face.
> 
> The breath she held in finally escaped her.
> 
> Cursing herself, she attempted to still and blend in, but she knew it would not work when one of the men was commanded to check on the noise she had made.
> 
> Thinking abruptly, she decided to crawl out further away from the horses and deeper into the trees, gripping the knives. She huddled near some shrubbery and rocks, positioning herself so her back would not be turned as he came. She hoped that he would not be smart enough to come from upstream as it had a good vantage point. 
> 
> Daenerys listened. It was quiet save for the steps of his boots and the clanking of his sword. As the noise grew, something caught in her throat and her eyes began to sting. She thought about everyone that depended on her to survive and started to shake. She bowed her head.
> 
> “You over there!” The man shouted. She did not make any attempts of shifting her body. 
> 
> Curling into herself, she made her body shake further. “You!” He was standing in front of her.
> 
> Ashamed, she thought he would smell worse, vile and disturbing, but he just reeked of ale and hay. He kicked her, and she tried not to groan as the blow could have done worse damage, but it just forced a change in her position.
> 
> Her hand shot out to catch her shifting form.
> 
> “I knew yer a woman,” he said as if poison touched his lips. “Get up.”
> 
> Gritting her teeth, she began to rise, carefully and cautiously gripping her knife in her other hand. As she rose, he stepped closer, and just close enough so that she could look up, her violet eyes full of aggression met his blue shaken ones.
> 
> Taking his moment of shock as an opportunity, she stepped forward, and jutted her knife into him as Jon had taught her days before. The man gasped and struggled before her, but she slipped past him and what little armor he had and side stepped his sword, making sure to curve her knife upward so it could hit an organ of importance. At least she hoped.
> 
> Doubling over, she was careful to cover his mouth with her trembling hand and returned his kick straight to his ribs. The satisfaction that coursed through her startled her as she moved both knives and slit his throat with shaky hands. 
> 
> Daenerys watched the body fall from her grasp with a horror that slammed into her as realization of what she had just done set in.
> 
> _Compartmentalize._
> 
> She swallowed all the other emotions that bubbled in her throat. 
> 
> She wished she had time to ask him questions, to not kill him,  _but Jon_. Jon could be dead. She did not look back as she ran towards their camp, almost forgetting about the three men that remained. Crouching behind shrubs she peeked at the situation only to see the men look uneasy and Jon with a bloodied face.
> 
> She was careful. Very careful with sure steps. If she could just-
> 
> “You!”
> 
> A man to her left shouted. Her head snapped up and her body tensed, quick to.  _No more hiding._  She stepped out into the open and casted a quick glance towards Jon, who finally looked fearful.
> 
> The man who seemed to be interrogating him turned around.
> 
> She darted her eyes between both of them who froze, similar to the other man.  _Good._
> 
> She took one of the knives and looked at Jon, tilting her head, the same way he had when they were at the tavern to nudge her over. He did not respond. The man in front of him started walking towards her. She did the movement twice more before Jon caught on and leaned to his right in time for her to angle and dart the knife, harsh and steady, towards the man behind him.
> 
> And she never missed.
> 
> Jon, who had been somewhat deflated, had collected himself and grabbed one of the swords, Longclaw in one of the other men’s hands.
> 
> Noticing her direct hit to the face of the other man, only the man to her left had stopped. This one, the one who interrogated Jon charged at her.
> 
> She only had one knife left, and it would not do against Valyrian steel. Or a man twice her size charging at her. A moving target that was not a small animal, she could not do. Daenerys understood her limits.
> 
> She took quick steps back, praying not to fall. Perhaps if she ran fast enough, she could get to the horses.
> 
> _No._
> 
> The man was too near. He was close enough to where she could have given a startled cry had Jon not effectively sliced at him and then once more to the last remaining one that had come to him from the back.
> 
> He made it look chillingly easy. And he did not stop after, not as she had.
> 
> The Queen knew it was wrong to feel satisfied and impressed when the grim look that had shown very little in the last few days returned. He looked ill. Miserable.
> 
> He stepped over the body and towards her, pulling her up to him. He was careful not to bloody her but his embrace was one of terror. Jon cradled her to his scarred chest and kissed the scarf that covered her head. They stayed like that until his breath evened out.
> 
> She was fine. She had not been tortured. She had not been interrogated and stripped to reveal what seemed to be the cause of his most desolate face.
> 
> When he finally released her, she thought he would press his lips to hers, but he seemed to stop himself and instead turned around, looking at the bodies.
> 
> _Try not to kill anyone_ , Gendry had cautioned.
> 
> He stared at the mess they created and released a harsh breath, clutching at his side. Daenerys moved towards him, but he shook her off, bending to pick up his sword and walk over to sheath it once more.
> 
> Daenerys wracked her mind for what they could do to the bodies. They were a little over half a day’s ride to the next town. It would be too close for them to burn the bodies without the air smelling or the rain that looked to be coming, putting out the fire.
> 
> There was not much space to hide them nor did they have the tools to bury them without it taking hours.  _Time._  They scarcely had it.
> 
> Jon sat down on a fallen tree, looking to rest as he shook his head, closing his garments back up. She swallowed, taking in the cuts on his cheek and grimaced at the dripping blood from his nose. She wanted to say something but nothing came to mind. It was not his fault.
> 
> It wasn’t hers either.
> 
> Picking her head up, an idea came to her as Jon rubbed his face.
> 
> She began to run off to retrieve the man she had knocked down, much to Jon’s worry.
> 
> “Wait!” she called to him, turning to wave him down.
> 
> She prayed to whatever gods Jon seemed to believe in, that this man could not withstand a blade to the throat or that she had gone deep enough as she retraced her steps. Perhaps she could have used his help for the body was surely to weigh a lot.
> 
> When she found it, she looked for anything that would be of use. Finding nothing, she decided it would be a good idea to slip his cloak under him and use that as an easier way to drag him.
> 
> She had made it more than halfway back before Jon rushed to her, staggering a little, before shoving away her hands, scowling at her.
> 
> Shrugging it off, she tugged back at the man’s cloak and encouraged him to pull, making the body far lighter. “How would it look if they fell fighting each other?” she asked, eyeing him apprehensively. 
> 
> His features relaxed, just slightly, and looked at her as if she had grown an odd limb. She gave him a tight smile.
> 
> The air smelled thick with the promise of a rain shower by the time they were done. “Ride hard,” he told her. “Don’t look back.”
> 
> Daenerys nodded and did as instructed, ignoring the pain in her side that had finally set in after the adrenaline had worn off.
> 
> They seemed to be making good time until she noticed Jon falling behind on his mount. They had been riding for hours and he was hurt. She wanted to stop, but there was no cover and the rain was beginning to fall at severe strength.  _A little longer_ , she told herself stealing worried looks at him.
> 
> Slowing down to observe him, he looked pale. 
> 
> She swallowed. She had been through his before.
> 
> Dread caught in her throat as she slowed his horse with her own mare. Jon lifted his head sluggishly. His eyes were glassy as she straightened her arms to his form. She could not believe she had not noticed the blood.
> 
> _No. There was no blood before. Not like this._
> 
> “Jon,” her voice shook.
> 
> “Keep going,” he rasped out, looking about to fall.
> 
> _No. Please, no._
> 
> “Jon!” she cried out, jumping from her horse to fully halt his. Her hands reached upwards, frantically checking his body for the stab or cut wound she knew she would find. It was the only one that was new,  _dark… Infected?_ , and bleeding. She’d counted before.
> 
> “Jon,” she called his name again, petrified.
> 
> He gasped in pain as he moved to hover over his horse, similar to the way he looked returning to Eastwatch.
> 
>  “We have to keep going.” It was all he was able to rasp out and Daenerys’ entire body surged into a panicked action. She pulled what remained of their coins from his back into her cloak and secured his body.
> 
> Pushing forward, she pulled at all feelings of dread and tried shoving them into the depths of her mind for later review, but they fought her, repeatedly snapping to the forefront of her mind.
> 
> _Compartmentalizing_ , her act of sorting through her mind was entirely futile for her feelings seemed to run as boundless as the narrow sea.
> 
>  

 

_Week 3_

There should have been unease in the room for how Lady Sansa watched the squire. It was peculiar how ideas sifted through her mind in his presence, like a river flowing easy until she ultimately came to a natural impasse.

“Does my sister scare you?” Sansa already knew the answer.

While in Arya’s company, her hairs stood straight all over her body, but with the burly squire there was no longer any strain.

Across her, he sat, reading a book of which contents she decided not to ask in fear of him relaying the entire story she did not care to hear.

Watching him glance up at her, once then twice, closing his book, presumably to assess if his lady was misleading him, Sansa arched an eyebrow at his abrupt, “Yes.”

The answer was honest.

“My brother, the King-” she started although knowing entirely that he had bent the knee.

“There are a great many stories about him,” Podrick pondered. _Yes, there are_. Both good and bad.

“Bran,” Sansa paused, contemplating how she was to broach her oddest sibling. “When I told you to retrieve him-”

“He said he must become one with every bird in the sky, become the ears to the earth, the eyes of the winds…” the squire trailed off, eyes darting up from under his short lashes. 

Sansa stifled her grimace. It was at least comforting knowing that he was anomalous with people other than her. “My apologies.”

She had sent for Podrick to deliver her sibling to the solar to discuss if he could potentially see where their brother could be, but he had frustratingly stated that the snow made it difficult for birds to fly. But that she should not worry.

“It is nothing, my lady,” he said softly as if everything was alright. She had certainly thought him to be just as fretful as she had been weeks ago, but he seemed to calm with time. It was not a skill she mastered.

“My family, they are quite bizarre as of late,” Sansa uttered as she ran her fingers through her limp hair.

“People do not always remain the same.” Podrick looked to her, laying the book in his lap. “They must change to survive, and times are strenuous.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “It could always be worse.”

“It is the end of the world, Podrick.” Her face was straight. The ravens between her and Lord Commander Edd, they were beginning to lessen. _The snow_ , she told herself as the feeling of cotton cultivated in her mouth.

“It could be over,” he offered. “We are still here.”

“For how long?”

“No use in thinking about that.”

 

 

***

 

 

It was true. One never does feel the pain until time has passed. 

Jon awoke to a horrid feeling, though his eyes stayed stuck together. He groaned out at a stinging sensation in his lower stomach. Pressure.

_This. Again._

Jon was not with his queen any longer. There were no horses. No grottos. No open plains. No rain. No comfort. No understanding. He was surrounded by snow and his brothers were lined against him. He thought to his family as he waited for his life to pass him once again.

It was hallowed, the feeling of failure. And it came with a bitter burn.

 _And soft hands?_ He shoved at them for he did not want to be brought back again.

It was a feeble attempt, but he did not want tending to. Perhaps this was Sam’s insistence. He shoved harder.

The push held little weight for Daenerys. It was just troublesome for she was no Maester.

“Jon, let me take care of you.” It came as a soft trill. Earnest. Kind. _Loving_.

Jon attempted at unfastening his eyes, but everything looked distorted. Her voice had been the only clear thing; that and the pain. He groaned. _Pain is good._

_Fuck._

He began to fade once more.

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys had been sitting in a corner on a ratted chair when Jon rose again, clutching his stomach.

He had been dreaming of the sky, the clouds rippling through his hair, like he was flying. At more than one point he had been near the water as well, so close he felt as if the salt was on his face. Then he heard _screeching_ , agonizing cries so abrupt and jarring that he stumbled forward on a bed, poised for a threat that was not there.

He thought the panic would come to him, all rushed like he could not breathe but all he felt was heat as his eyes focused. Warmth. Burning.

He moved his hand down and found bandages and looked up with a careful expression.

A book laid on in the Queen’s lap, white hair falling in soft waves, cascading down her shoulders. Her purple eyes watched him. The look of fright momentarily flashed through them before softening with an exhale.

Jon did the same.

He could have asked what had happened but he knew it would come back to him. It always did. So, he just stared as she placed her book down on the table beside her.

Looking around at the rickety room, lined with dark woods and endowed with inexpensive furs and run down furniture, he realized she must have found an inn. He knew a town was to come up as soon as they reached the North.

They had both made it. She made sure they did.

It was a weak smile, but Jon offered it nonetheless as she took careful steps towards him.

She did not smile back.

She only lifted a palm to his cheek when she neared, caressing the high points of his face with her thumb. “You knew this would happen, did you not?”

Jon cringed.

Nothing would get past her, he decided. He would not even bother lying. “Thought someone to be following us after the first town we stopped at in the Reach-” The poor excuse of a voice that slipped past his lips sounded awful.

He winced.

“That long?” She let out a dry laugh and shook her head. “Why did you not tell me?”

He winced once more, at the sound of her this time.

Dejection had encompassed the words that left her lips and she held his eyes steadily.

“Didn’t wish to worry you,” Jon managed to get out.

Her eyes became glassy.

He winced a third time. And none of his shrinking away had the slightest to do with pain and heaviness in his lower stomach.

His sight was becoming hazy, his lids lowering, involuntarily. “You are worrying me now.”

“Stop worrying,” he said between clenched teeth as he tried to force his eyes to stay open. “I’ll be right and ready to move in just a moment.”

It was all he got out before falling unconscious once more. He had meant to tell her, this time, that there had been one more man. He must have gotten away.

And by the time Jon would wake next, he would not remember.

He had been out cold for seven long hours and bleary for the following three days.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon was unsure of how long it had been, for she did not tell him. She had actually spoken few words since he came into consciousness, only sitting and sleeping in a small rocking chair by the fire place in a far corner of the dingy room. Today she had some garment and a needle with thread.

“We have to move.” It was the sixth or seventh time he had said those words. Although he uttered them between his dozes, this time he had been up for hours, watching her in a careful silence, his voice clear as crystal.

Jon noticed the irritation creep onto her features as red anger traveling up her neck to her cheeks. She said nothing until she looked at him and let out a breath and told him, “You cannot move yet.”

She was not entirely wrong, but they had to be close. They could ride and then get a Maester to treat him. They should not be in inns longer than necessary.

“I am fine,” his voice was gentle.

Jon had tried to charm her into strapping him onto his horse and pushing on. He had even joked about the wound, hoping to settle her but it did little.

“You are not,” she said through clenched teeth, resuming her stitching.

“Daenerys.”

“I am frightened,” her voice finally cracked as she lifted her chin.

Her eyes were misty. Jon deflated.

“You lost a lot of blood. The pois-” she stopped, turning away.

 _It’s futile now_ , Jon thought while leaning back, glancing at anything and anywhere but her.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon had coaxed her into sleeping beside him again some days later. She had complained and mumbled that the idea would be terrible. He did not understand why until the following night he woke to her tossing and groaning in pain.

_Night terrors._

He did not know what she dreamt of, only that wetness covered her face.

Although the dreams looked to be vile, he was oddly comforted that he was not the only one being haunted by tomorrow’s demons, getting far and far less sleep.

But he did not want that for her.

She had once had the clearest eyes and skin but beneath her purple irises now laid dark patches. He had asked her if it was because of him and she had hesitated, filling him with a sort of sadness and guilt he had not felt since her dragon fell.

That night he did not call her to sleep beside him, thinking that perhaps she would rest some elsewhere, but she came to him anyways, pulling the thin sheet back, slipping out of her day clothes and into his side.

Jon listened to her calm breaths, placing one of his palms on her stomach, stroking it with his thumb, carefully avoiding ideas of her having his children.

Turning his head to her, he started, “You do this thing, you know,” he paused, cautious. “Where you look ready to distance yourself,” he looked down, waiting for her expression to change or perhaps a biting retort he had grown somewhat fond of though he would never tell her.

Nothing.

“Why?” he probed.

“Because it is easier to not feel.” Her voice wavered. She may have thought it to be an honest answer, but her eyebrows crinkled in a small level of confusion.

“No,” Jon shook his head, thinking of all the times he had noticed her freeze. “It is as if you feel too much.” He lifted his hand to her face, massaging her temple. “I can see the distress pass through your eyes.” Jon ran his finger across the lines that appeared from her worry. “And you halt… or shake. You physically shiver in horror. How? Why?”

Dany shrugged, expression never shifting from her creased face.

“It happened to me once,” he offered, attempting to get her to confide in him, blinking away the exhaustion looming. “I supposed I stopped caring and it went away,” he mused, something he had been hesitant to divulge, to even acknowledge.

He did stop caring about his life, he had admitted to himself. There was no possible way he could have valued it when he did as he did. “It felt as if my entire chest was closing in. The whole world seemed to turn black and-”

“If you know, why do you ask?”

His eyes went to her face, seeing a wearisome look. “What I wish to understand is if this happened, _happens_ , more often.”

“Why?”

“Perhaps I could help.”

“You cannot,” she clipped.

Jon opened his mouth to speak but was immediately hushed by the lowness of her voice. “It started when Viserion died.”

Jon swallowed.

“Trembling when afraid is normal but...” She seemed despondent.

“Looking as if you are about to topple over is not,” he offered quietly.

“Not for me, no.”

When Jon had first spoken to her he could not imagine anything getting to her. Her resolve was perfect, nearly impenetrable even with Tyrion’s failed plan. She had never broken character.

The longer his stay, the more he saw bits and pieces of her values and morals come through, yet she still pulled her farce impeccably. No more.

He pondered if it was because she changed. Or if it was that _they_ changed. She let him in.

“Are you certain there is nothing I can do?”

“I am. You are doing enough as is, if you just get well.” Her face shifted to underneath his arm, and her hand reached over his chest to curl into him.

 

 

***

 

 

“What are you looking for in those now?” Jon had been asleep. He slept in nowadays.

Daenerys supposed he was making up for the times he had stayed up pacing the perimeter of their camp.

“Answers,” she replied, smiling at his sleepy voice.

“For?” he husked out, low and throaty.

Ignoring the ache which started to radiate in her lower stomach she replied, “Ways to build a better empire, a better society.”

It was not an easy feat. The book delved deeper into old Valyria and illustrated how powerful noblemen were, running it effectively, despite the slave society the government was built upon.

Daenerys frowned further into the books, pondering how she could efficiently congregate people into one form of regime without mistreatment.

“And have you found anything useful?” Jon sat up, curious, and rubbing his eyes.

“Unfortunately not,” Daenerys pursed her lips, “And I can’t seem to abolish immorality without dissent, which leaves me in the most compromising situation.” She looked at him accusingly, to which he responded with a sigh.

Their conversation on the ship ride to King’s Landing stayed with her.  “I just wish the world to be a better place.”

“Don’t we all.”

Daenerys knew he did not meant to sound condescending, but a huff escaped her lips regardless. “What will-” he started quickly, but paused to correct his tone, unsure.

“I, we, us, do?” Daenerys supplied pointedly.

It was indeed peculiar how she latched onto the word ‘together’, for she would have easily dismissed his words as merely foolish promises of men. “Should we survive this war, from the ruins a new kingdom will arise,” she answered herself. “How?” she made a face before continuing. “I am not certain.”

Jon’s forehead creased in thought.

“The execution requires some work, but understanding the people and the lands better is imperative,” Daenerys admitted with a slight nod of her head, in acknowledgment to her Lord Hand and King to be right.

Jon gave her _a look._

“I know,” she sighed. “But who may be here now may not reside here later.” It was an ugly truth she was coming to terms with.

The entirety of the trip she wondered if Tyrion had taken into assessment the types of people who would survive or if he was simply staying with the best possible solutions and pushing for such. Because she was not.

The Great War, it could be their undoing. Her Lord Hand had seen but one of those _things_. Not hundreds of thousands. Not the Night King. He had not seen her son fall as easily as one of his own drunken topples to the pebbled earth.

“Tyrion urges me to think ahead, but I find when I think too far into the future for my plans they fail. So here I start with the vision of a progressive realm and leave it at that.”

“What if the people do not want that?” Jon asked cautiously.

“So far, on this journey, I have yet to meet a single person that is happy with what little they do have,” she sniffed. “And every person of nobility is neither satisfied nor safe.”

The brooding man across the room nodded in outward agreement but still pressed on. “People fear the unknown.”

“Then they must be brave, for it is the only thing they can do to yield change,” Daenerys argued.

He smiled, but it was fleeting. “And what if that is not what they truly seek?”

“Are you telling me that we are all doomed for misery?” Daenerys closed the book and leaned forward, considering his expression which she found substantially challenging to read. “That is too sad for me to accept.”

Sighing and sitting back into her seat, she dismissed his words, saying, “I shall let my Lord Hand handle the conversion.” She knew trickery on a massive level was his field of expertise.

 

 

***

 

 

Once upon a time, Tyrion thought that nothing could do High Garden much harm as it had been the source of the continent’s most plentiful crops.

Then he witnessed it get burnt down.

It had recovered well enough; the ash was no longer a substitute for grass, at least.

Again, he was in the Reach, and it was still an awful experience for he sat across Varys’ chiefly wary face.

“Would you care to explain to me how it is that you have managed to escape your sisters grasp?” The Spider tucked his hands into his sleeves after sipping from a goblet that did not contain wine, or if it did, only Tyrion’s was lacking.

“I do not,” the small lord returned swiftly, hiding his suspicion towards his sister. He was well aware that she was not being entirely honest.

Reaching across the table to pick up the Spider’s glass, eyes still on the eunuch, he sniffed the contents. _No wine._

Tyrion grimaced, placing it back down and ignoring Varys’ stale expression.

Recounting how his ass hurt from horseback and how the sun had taunted him for hours as he attempted to keep up with Dothraki speed was not a pleasant tale nor of importance. Neither was describing the anger radiating off of the four remaining guards, especially as he had ordered them not to swing at every Westerosi that graced their presence.

Qhono, especially, was more than livid watching bloodriders get picked off one by one and not be able to take action.

Tyrion was a loss for words and lacked even more in their native language.

“Care to further enunciate anything to me before you step in front of our queen?”

Varys did not move. He sat calm as ever in the chair Tyrion was sure the late Queen of Thorns had died in.

Whereas the small lord sighed with immense relief, “She is well,” he pushed forward towards a side table with refreshments, the sides of his mouth rising, the weight of his mind lifting.

“I don’t know, I am afraid,” said Varys, making Tyrion stop short from his endeavor to take a pitcher. _She was not with advisement or her dragon?_

Like a boulder, the weight crashed back onto him, making the lord stagger.

Stopping tersely, his mind wandered to foul scenarios immediately.

Following the onslaught of disastrous theories, emotions passed over him, and he was not sure which idea left him worse off; the idea of the Dragon Queen missing or his friend deceased.

His throat dried and the pear nectar next to a tray of soft cheese would have to do.

“I was taken by the Unsullied, here, to High Garden, as planned. I did not see much,” Varys glanced at him with contempt and though Tyrion did not see, he knew it was so as he heard it in the spymaster’s tone.

He could understand why.

While he was busy being dragged away by his family’s soldiers, he realized it might have been wise to advise the Spider of his and Jon Snow’s plans. It would have been a fantastic idea, he recognized in retrospect.

“Where is Grey Worm?” Tyrion asked abruptly, turning around, as he did not see him as he passed the Unsullied camp and wondered if, perhaps his whereabouts were unknown as well.

“With Ser Davos Seaworth and a boy, Gendry Waters,” Varys supplied wearily while Tyrion rubbed his face.

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed as the Spider untucked his hands and leaned forward on the table towards his form, almost in secrecy.

Stepping closer, the small lord heard Varys state slowly that he believed the boy to be Robert Baratheon’s last bastard son.

Disbelief flurried across the Lord Hand’s face before realization did. The boy did look awfully familiar. He should have seen it immediately, especially when the Warhammer graced the boy’s fingertips. He swung with fury and even wore the colors of his sire’s House.

“You know, that makes sense, entirely, truly, but, pardon the conversation on that front,” Tyrion shook his head, thinking that perhaps the Spider’s face existed unenthusiastically because the unsullied commander was not stationed where he should have been.

He had hoped that Grey Worm’s location would unveil a truth to the events at the Pit, but it did not. “We shall come back to it-”

The importance of the topic of a lost Baratheon bastard was not lost to Tyrion in the least but not where his mind was, and his mind finally met with his vocal chords. “What the fuck do you mean you have not seen the Queen?”

It was not quite a snap but the harshness that slipped past his teeth startled even him.

The Spider could find almost anyone, and he had weeks to do so but the queen was still unaccounted for.

Comprehension set in, followed by panic when he grasped a few things; Jon Snow was not with Ser Davos. There had been no word of him either, actually.

Tyrion looked up. The gods sole purpose must be to fuck with him, he was convinced.

“Could he have taken her? He seems to be quite _taken_ with her.”

Despite Varys suggestive tone, Lord Tyrion was not the mastermind behind some elaborate plan to draw them closer.

They did not need that from what he saw. He knew them to be getting along when they were not arguing.

“I had _six_ men tracking a man with dark hair and eyes,” the Spider informed, lips tight. “I lost contact in the Riverlands some time ago. Only _one_ man was to get a message to me and it said they found the man with a Valyrian steel sword.”

Tyrion wanted to scream at the eunuch for this should have been the first thing uttered to him but when the lord went to speak, the other man raised his hand to stop him. “The rest of the men- there is no word. The country men are frightened, so, that bird is no longer singing to me.”

Even with the eerie tinge to Varys voice, Tyrion sat straighter for Valyrian steel was infinitely uncommon. “Wolf Pommel?” he probed though he already knew the answer.

“No.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, actually, in peasant garb, thought to be simpleminded-”

Tyrion’s brows puckered at Varys but he had not been sure until now. It was the only thing that made sense. She trusts Jon Snow, though she does not see that yet, and he acts rashly. _Right up their alley to do something unfathomably dangerous._

“She has to be with him,” Tyrion shook off his thoughts. “It has to be an act.” Simple-minded peasant was not original but… “She is clever.”

“More so than you choose to give her credit for,” Varys pursed his lips, picking up his goblet.

“Her head, if it becomes any larger, will not fit her body,” the jest slipped from between his teeth and he smiled an anxiety ridden smile, allowing his façade to fall some.

“He should be in Winterfell by now,” Tyrion spoke in a low voice. “Jon Snow,” he clarified, dismissing all negative thoughts for the time being as his brain worked to concoct something while Varys shot him a look.

It was neither angry nor mistrustful, just worried with a suspicious edge.

“Varys-” Tyrion hesitated.

“Another little bird in the Riverlands said that a brown man and a man with a war hammer, the Baratheon boy I presume, just passed through his father’s tavern.”

 _Grey Worm. They could know if Jon Snow was alive. That is why they are heading north and if Grey Worm was with them-_ “Have you tried contacting them?”

“They move too fast, my lord.”

Tyrion ran his fingers over the table’s edge before gazing certainly at Varys.

“And Drogon?” Tyrion did not bother to sit back down, preferring a nervous pace to help push his mind.

“Still injured, I believe-”

The small lord had thought that the situation couldn’t have gotten worse and yet, every time Varys spoke, grievous words tumbled out.

He had heard the cry and the roar, it should not have been a shock, but Tyrion still exhaled a deep, mournful sigh. 

“They did not tell you while you were being held?”

Tyrion squinted his eyes in irritation, contemplating, too, why Cersei would not use that to taunt him.

“It is called captivity for a reason.” he grounded out.

“He is wounded. By the ballista, a bigger one that your sister had commissioned.” _Of course she did_. Tyrion closed his eyes as Varys prattled on about the specifics, size, location, and where it hit the creature. None of it was good. “-Last seen flying north and then back towards Essos.”

 “No rider and still alive. A lot of blood lost. Nowhere to be seen currently-”

“Rhaegal?” Tyrion decided to fire out every question, allowing anger to course over him instead of embarrassment and grief that the entire situation was a shit show.

“Dragonstone. With Missandei though he has been known to let out unruly cries recently and refuses to leave from where his mother had told him to stay put. My Lord-”

Tyrion cut him off, inquiring further about the queen’s most trusted advisor. “She arrived back to Queen Daenerys’ ancestral seat with Lord Greyjoy. They await commands.” 

“Ser Jorah?” the Lord Hand pressed further, taking his seat back, pulling himself together and boxing any feelings up. He could present them to his queen later, _when_ they find her.

“Amongst the Dothraki, keeping them in line.”

Tyrion had not seen him yet, but he would do so before leaving the Reach. He had to stay with the Dothraki, they would follow him, he was strong enough, tall enough, and knew their tongue well, and he knew Westeros lands better than the small Lannister himself. 

Varys kept careful eyes on him, arching his brow. Tyrion understood what the man was doing; checking for doubt and weakness.

“Ready the men to ride.”

The Queen gave them specific orders and Tyrion understood. The problem north was the most important at the moment. _Even Jaime is terrified._ One of her dragons is gone, another injured. The north was rather defenseless against the army. 

Tyrion began his march out the door with a confidence he’d been faking his whole life.

“My lord?”

“The world would have imploded if she died, right?” the Lord Hand stopped at the large door, glancing at Varys.

When the spymaster asked what the plan was, it was simple; get Jon Snow home. That was all Tyrion wanted to do.

The Queen was important, but the Lannister lord felt that this war was Jon Snow’s, not hers. He needed to be home before his lands turned on him, and in time, Daenerys.

 _Pacify your territory_ , was what Tyrion told his old friend. _Make them see as you have. They will not welcome us._ It was a good plan, in theory, and the execution was lofty, but it was the repercussion of an unforeseen disaster.

 

 

***

 

 

They had left the first inn and traveled to another. Daenerys despised the looks they gave her in the North though they also frowned whenever Jon walked in alongside her. Suspicious, these people were, Tyrion was correct. Even so, they would always take her coffers and give her a room.

She deterred from her simpleminded peasant act to a resigned and modest woman who refused to make eye contact with anyone. Daenerys was not sure if they thought her to be arrogant or mistrustful, however, they were always rude until they saw Jon, for he looked northern. Very northern and quite handsome.

The women, the maidservants, looked at him with their hearts ready to be tossed at his feet and they had not even known that he was their king.

The mistress of this inn had offered them aid when she saw Jon sway on his feet a bit.

He was in pain which was why Daenerys pressed for them to stop early. He protested with all his might, of course.

“You do understand that you are important,” she bit out as she started stripping him of his cloak. It was properly cold now.

The air was crisp and the grounds were layered with day old snow. It was a wet snow for it did not stick much and it looked awfully dirty, but according to townspeople, there had been an usual amount of fog and flurries that came with it for it to have not stayed.

“Aye,” he groaned out as she shed his jerkin.

If she was not so cross at the amalgamation of their argument, the obvious way women were eyeing him, and the overprotectiveness the northerners had for their land and their countrymen, she supposed she would have been kinder and he undoubtedly would have come around with the prospect of her undressing him.

But she was irritated and he was curt.

“Why do you act as if you are not?” she started again.

“What was I supposed to do?” he snapped.

“Hide,” she offered, knowing he would not. “Run.” Daenerys could laugh at her own words. She wondered if cravenness was even in his vocabulary.

“Would _you_ have?” His voice was not soft in any form now. It was hard and full of his northern grit.

Daenerys grinded her teeth, entirely aware of how unfair she was being. “To survive, maybe. For my people, perhaps.”

He sat down, brushing one of her hands away from him.

She narrowed her eyes, returning the gesture despite his look of violation. “Will you sit still,” She said sharply. “You are the worst person to tend to.”

“I am sure there are people far worse.” His was expression full of discontent. “Look at me,” he barked at her.

Her head snapped up from his wound to his face, surprised by his tone. “I am fine,” his tone was gentler.

“You almost were not.”

_

 

Jon grew tired of her silent treatment, for she still laid in his arms, both of them willing sleep to come take them away from their problems, but she hadn’t said anything else.

Sleep was not quick to come, however.

“You have not questioned me on these.” Jon broke their reticence, motioning towards his scars.

In the inn, he slept with his tunic untied and had unwrapped her scarf to feel the softness of her hair on his chest.

“No, I have not,” her voice was as sharp as his blade.

He gritted his teeth, hoping for his voice to portray a softness that he was not feeling when he asked, “Why?”

“I imagined you would tell me when you were ready,” her voiced softened and for that he sighed.

“Don’t you think them to be ugly?” he peered over to see her face.

“Yes,” was all she said, quickly and with no hesitation. To that he could laugh. She was honest.

“It was after I let the wildlings past the wall. After Hardhome…” he spoke, watching her eyebrows knit together. “That is when we first saw the Night King, Edd, Tormund and I.”

“The fellow with the ginger hair.” She placed her chin on his chest as she rolled over to her stomach, bitterly intrigued.

“Aye.” He remembered they must have met from her saving them beyond the Wall. “He’s something. But has had my back more times than I care to admit,” he stopped for a moment in contemplation. “A wildling over my own people,” Jon let out a bitter laugh, eyes on the ceiling.

“They are your people now,” she said, as if it was the simplest thing in the realm. To her it probably was. People who sought to protect her or her protection, or agreed with her vision, were her people, no matter where they came from or what they have done as long as they sought justice and atoned. It was considerably straightforward. 

“I suppose,” Jon placated. “That made the brothers, a few of them, displeased.”

“That is putting it lightly,” she spoke, touching the scar above his heart.

“Most of them never liked me. Nor did they respect me. They thought that my decisions would kill them all.” He remembered Ser Alliser Thorne’s words.

“But had you not moved them-” she reasoned, her voice becoming defensive.

Smiling at her protectiveness, he murmured, “I know.”

“The Night King took thousands of them, the wildlings, at Hardhome. We only came back with under three thousand to the five that were originally there. It was a failure,” he exhaled, recalling the icy winds, the battle, the deaths.

“Dany,” he paused, emotion stuck in his throat as he met her gaze, “He raised them all in the blink of an eye. And he stared at me. He was taunting me.”

Every time the Night King saw him, it was the same look. One of vindictiveness, caution, careful warning.

“I did what was right.” Jon had repeated these words many times and every time, it sounded worse leaving his lips. “My steward, his name was Olly, no older than my little brother, Bran. His father was killed by a wildling. He came to me claiming he knew someone that saw my Uncle beyond the wall,” Jon swallowed. “I did not even think not to trust him. I trained him myself.” Jon’s voice grew shakier, never really having had to tell the story to anyone before. “He led me to my slaughter. A spot with naught but a wooden cross impaled on the cold ground, the word ‘traitor’ written across it. My brothers stood guard as one after the other took turns stabbing me. They left me alone to die.”

Jon was dazed at how pained his voice sounded.

“I remember it hurting. But not enough to scream,” he paused, pondering for a moment, watching her horrified face. “I suppose I was in too much shock. My whole body became numb and I just let death take me. I was tired,” he moved a strand of silver hair from her face.

 _“You really died.”_ He could feel her warm breath ghost his hands as he stared at her features.

“Is that so hard to believe?” he let out a soft but sour chuckle. “Darkness surrounded me and then I woke up, alarmed, terrified, sad. I could not breathe. A red priestess brought me back. And then everyone was scared of me. _I_ was scared of me,” he confessed. “I told Edd I was leaving and he was to be Lord Commander. I died for my vows. I no longer wanted to be a slave to people who could not…” Jon gritted his teeth.

He wanted to say he could no longer lead people who did not care for him, value him, or keep to their vows, but he would not. He had broken vows, betrayed people he loved, and had never truly valued those he should have for the time he had them. “I was no protector.”

Dany looked as if she was about to speak but quickly shut her mouth.

“And then my sister came. Beaten, bruised, frightened. I hadn’t seen her in years,” he shook his head. “She was a little girl and now she’s not, not anymore. She jumped on me,” he let out a breathy laugh. “I think Sansa hugged me, perhaps once every now and again for respect to my father and name days only. And when I fought to reclaim my family’s home, for my sister, for my brother, Rickon, I thought I would surely die and I was okay with that-”

“Jon.”

“I was never the happiest lad and I had failed far too many times.”

“You did not fail,” she protested.

“I did,” he cupped her cheek despite her resistance. “Had my sister not shown up when she did with the knights of the Vale, all of those people sworn to me would be dead. _I_ would have been dead, again, and I would have been _glad_.”

“Jon,” she attempted to remove herself from his grasp, get out of the bed and move away from him entirely.

“Dany, look at me,” he called to her. “Truly. I am supposed to be dead. I should have stayed dead.” 

She shook her head.

“Look at them.” He wanted her to see them for what they were. She would not. “You used to be able to look at them. Touch them. Kiss them.”

He doubted she would be able to do that now.

“I did not know you hate them so.” Her voice was faint.

“They are a constant reminder of betrayal.”

He wanted to scoff. He despised them. Some people wore their wounds with pride and a reminder of what they survived but when he saw his, he wondered if survival was worth it for-

“Where are they now?” The tone of her inquiry snapped him from his mind.

“Dead.”

“Good.”

_

 

Daenerys did not wish for Jon to know that had she known him then, as she does now, she would have fed the men who had killed him to her dragon and watched with pleasure as they burned.

This was never to happen to him again, she swore to herself. She would protect him. No northern lord, southron lady, foreigner, wildling, white walker, none of them would harm him.

Not while she was around.

_

 

Jon had been watching her lashes flutter for some time. Occasionally a breathe would slip past her lips, or she would groan and roll over.

As he was younger, he thought all girls slept, even Arya and Sansa, who despite their consistent jabbering on, as if they were little bears. Daenerys did not. She was vocal, loud and expressive. Often times, she would mutter in her sleep, and even during her nightmares.

But this night, her body didn’t shake with haunting terrors and for that Jon would thank his gods.

Her eyes flickered lazily as her head began to turn further, as it ultimately did, in his direction. 

A low sigh of ease and warmth passed her lips as her chest rose and this time she had called for her dragons, and then she had called for him. 

It was a deep plea, tired but strong, almost as if she yearning to return to a home.

Instinctually, Jon raised his palm to her cheek as a response, informing her that he was still there even if her children were not. _He was with her._  

He had never intended to disrupt her but a faint whine escaped her lips as he brushed his thumb along her skin.

The moment couldn’t have been a hallucination. Even in Jon’s wildest dreams there was no way of him conjuring up a delusion of someone so _special_.

She was truly beautiful and though Jon wasn’t a poet, her eyes reminded him of the sunsets when just too much of the light rays would hit the sky, turning it this shade of violet he’d grown to associate with her. And her skin, it was supple, smoother than his own with dainty brown spots he counted whenever the opportunity was presented to him.

Tormund had gasped that her hair had been kissed by snow when she arrived beyond the wall to save them. Impossible as that had been the first time she had encountered the flurries but figuratively, yes, it was white, thick and soft as silk.

She seemed so delicate, though she was durable and reasonably crude, outwardly elegant and inwardly tactful.

Her anger could sporadically worry him, but she was bright as a lemon and equally as sharp. Her passion, it had exceeded all his prior notions. 

Deep into the night, he would try to find ways in which he could halt all sentiments, even if for a moment. To pull away and not look back, or have the ability to be indifferent. He tried to reason, telling himself that if he could have been once, he could be once more, but the more he looked to the past, he wondered whether he was ever indifferent.

 _No_. He never was.

She had nested beneath his skin within the first fortnight he had landed on Dragonstone.

Jon shifted towards her, careful not disturb his wound, knowing she had little patience with him at the moment.

He thought she would turn away from him the rest of the night after his story. He waited for the look of disgust that he gave his scars to appear on her face but it never did. She simply fell asleep, head on his chest, like other nights.

He swallowed before padding his thumb up to her eyes, her hair, and then down to her lips before kissing them.

She sighed into him.

That was enough for him to move his hand lower to her throat, stroking his finger to the hollows, releasing her moan. The sound was enchanting.

Her eyes drifted open as he lowered his lips back to hers, desiring to taste the sweetness that was sure to still reside in her mouth from her late-night snacks. They never failed to satisfy him, her kisses. He wished that he could have his mouth on hers all days long, fix his lips to the corner, smooth his tongue over her pout. She could arch her back, as she did now, tugging at him to abandon restraint.

Jon nuzzled into her neck, sliding his palms down the curve of her body to her lower half, past the breeches she kept on. He pulled at her smallclothes, finding her ready and warm for him.

He groaned, nibbling at her throat.

“Jon, stop,” she pushed him back.

“You do not want me to-”

“No, it is not that,” she shook her head, placing a palm to his chest. “You will pull out your stitches. _I_ will pull out your stitches,” she offered, meekly and red cheeked.

He wanted to chuckle at the look of concern on her face. “I am not too fretful with myself right now.” He ran his thumb against her slit.

“I know, but I am,” her eyes widened as she closed her legs, pushing away his hand.

“Trust me?” Jon asked with a mockingly innocent look on his face. He had no intention of doing anything to himself, for himself. He just wanted to look at her.

“Jon,” she warned, turning away.

He reached towards her despite her protest, pulling her closer to him, showing her what he meant to do. He repeated his opposition, gently caressing her face as she stared doe eyed at him. “No,” he spoke once more, unlacing the top of her gown, trailing his fingers past her breast, watching her bud harden. She moaned. He clicked his tongue as he outlined the curves of her stomach, dipping into her belly button, tracing his way down to her womanhood, removing her few barriers. “Look at me,” he husked out, teasing her as she whimpered. 

Her violet eyes dimmed with hunger.

Slipping a finger inside of her, Jon watched her eyes fluster. Sticking another within her, he watched her gasp. He drove them in and out of her, curving slightly, to hit the spot she was so deeply fond of, just to watch her mouth part for him. He massaged her nub with his thumb while she trembled.

“I wish to see you fall apart.”

Her eyes rolled back as her head fell to the pillow they shared. A straggled noise came from her throat as she clenched around his fingers, panting his name.

Jon moaned.

His entire body responded to hers, her noises, her movements, her smell. _Gods, she smelled lovely._ His head fell to the hallows of her neck, sucking and biting at the base as he felt her body quiver.

Leaving wet kisses at any part of her he could reach, he waited until she stopped rasping his name to look into her eyes. They were glassy and exhausted. He’d exhausted her, now and for the last few days.

He was utterly grateful.

 

 

***

 

 

“Any word?” Podrick seemed to be having difficulty catching up to Sansa’s speedy pace. 

“No.” But snow was to fall heavily within a fortnight, so she needed to send reinforcements to the Wall for she had not heard from neither Lord Commander Edd nor Tormund. She decided she would send a message to Dragonstone after this last snowfall if her brother was not home by then. She would no longer be able to reign the northern lords in without herself taking authority. And she would not have that, especially with Arya breathing down her neck.

According to her sister there were secret groups assembling. How they found the time between the snow and the training men were supposed to do when the snow slowed, she was not sure. 

Walking into the solar, she wished that her people would put more thought on how to defeat the dead rather than overthrow her brother. Tomorrow she would seek out Bran to find out under whom these men were assembling.

“What is that?” she turned to Podrick, her face scrunching up at the sight of blood on his face, slightly alarmed. Her eyes darted around the area and past his form.

Podrick felt at his face until he saw red on his hands and looked up embarrassed, “A nose bleed, my lady.”

“Why?” It sounded rude, but she was genuinely concerned. Sansa hoped that he did not have some sort of issue, this was the last thing she needed. 

“My apologies…” Podrick hesitated, shoulders sagging, unsure of what to say.

“Do you get those often?” Sansa tried not to sound too worried.

He shook his head.

Nodding once, she turned around to march to the study. “Do not bleed on my floor, Podrick.”

“I will try to hold it in, mi-lady,” he seemed to muffle his words.

 

 

***

 

“I would rather not stay in another inn.” Daenerys stilled her horse as they were about to pass by another town.

Jon had mentioned the further up north they were, the sooner people would recognize who he was. And Daenerys did not want to see girls fawning over him. She wanted privacy and quiet. A storm was brewing, she could feel it in the air. “May we ride?”

“The horses will need rest,” he hesitated.

“Then let us camp if it will not do you much harm.” The woods were everywhere, and the snow was soft, white and plush now. It was no longer dirty or mushy and frozen.

“It’s cold,” he commented with a frown.

“I will take my chances,” she dismissed. “Or will it trouble you?” Her head snapped up, unthinkingly, tossing a look at him.

“I am merely considering you.” And with that she turned towards the trees with a sort of glee.

“It is no trouble at all,” she threw back eager to be away from judging eyes. They did not gossip in the north as they did down south. They just gave trying glances and whispered nasty things.

Jon had told her they were in a state of imbalance by Sansa’s words. They had to begin rationing as winter had come without stable sovereignty and people had become complacent with the long summer.

She was told not to worry that it was not always this way. Some people were warm, but they could probably tell she was not from around.

Although the lands were vast, northerners knew their territory. Jon seemed to not blink one eye at it either. Which was when she realized, Jon was not kind, at first. She definitely was not but he had been nearly ill-mannered and considerably blunt. 

“I’ll make a northern woman out of you yet.”

 

+

 

By the time they had set up camp, made a small fire, and pitched the tent, Jon had pushed her roughly into the shelter, gripping at her cloak.

“I want you so much I can hardly breathe.”

It was so unlike him. She had stumbled, tumbling them down. “Why?” she questioned. Not that she was not interested in what he had in mind, but his insistence, especially recently, confused her.

She was to do the demanding.

“None of who I am matters to you. You don’t think me to be a silly bastard boy playing at kingship. You respect me, my thoughts. You should not even be near me.”

Taken aback at his rush of words, she uttered, “What?” She was asking as to why he was so eager to bed her in the middle of the woods surrounded by snow, in the cold. Surely that would deter a man. 

“I’m of no true rank.”

He leaned back as she climbed on top of him, eyes blazing with a strange assortment of anger and need. “And I am?” she questioned through her teeth, not believing they were still having this sort of conversation. “I was exiled. I had nothing but who my family was in the past. They called me the beggar princess over there and here a foreign whore.” 

“You are still highborn,” he looked at her with sad eyes.

Daenerys shook her head in disbelief. “That means nothing.”

“It does,” Jon insisted.

It was wretched, really, for he moved her. To have such things instilled in his mind to the point where he thought himself to mean so little, it made her furious. She had desired to ask who had specially made him think so low of himself. But it was an entire continent.

Daenerys had spent hours thinking of the placement of a bastard in the world and she could understand for it had protected the wife of adulterous noblemen. It would assure their importance but that in itself was entirely erroneous.

“Not to me. It should not. You were _chosen_. That is more than any name,” she frowned. “Do you not hear the stories they tell about you? They call you the protector of the realm, the king that brought together two nations.”

Jon had always commented upon what people thought, she realized. But he would not listen to the positives they have spoken about him.

“Didn’t you hear the one where they say I’ve fallen stupid for a mad queen?” he shifted under her.

In response, she tightened her legs and rolled her hips for good measure, ignoring his groan and his hardening length, as she was not done. He would not dismiss her now. “Says a lot more about how they think of me than you,” she scowled at him. “I have worked hard to be respected even half of what you have.”

“Had, may haps.”

A breath escaped her lips as she moved against him, leaning back a bit, sagging. “I fear I am not good enough for you Jon Snow,” she swallowed. “I am at war and my thoughts have not been pure.”

“My thoughts right now are not pure.” He moved to sit up, bring her closer to him despite the frown residing on his lips.

“About my enemies, Jon,” she pushed at his chest, willing him to focus. “They may be right. I have thought about burning them alive, fantasizing it,” she admitted, meeting his eyes, daring him to turn from her, but he, once again, did not look shocked. “You are naturally good, thinking in the most honorable ways- I, I do not deserve you.”

She had not earned someone good yet.

“You speak as if dark thoughts have never entered my mind, Your Grace. I have hung a little boy and murdered with my own hands. I am not too good,” he shook his head.

“You had to do that. I do not have to get the Iron Throne. I _want_ it.”

“You will be a better queen, a good queen,” he finally said with confidence. “What your reasons are for wanting it, I am sure have come out of the tragedies you have been through and witnessed. I think no less of you.” Jon held her face. “You are still the queen I have chosen and the woman I am happy to lie beside,” Jon halted before smiling and moving, “Lie under.”

 

_

 

The dry cold crept upon her in the night. Jon had known because it was the closest she had been to him save for the times he’d been inside her. She clung to him as if her life depended on it. Jon could feel every curve of her body from her breasts against side to her warm center nestled over his hip, their legs intertwined.

They were almost at Winterfell.

Jon spent the last few hours thinking while his queen rested. They were close to the place where she would have little security: no unsullied, no Dothraki, no dragons. She had not mentioned anything, but Jon felt something was not right.

Her dragon had not arrived when they were being attacked even though she was in enough danger to warrant the protection.

It was another worry for when they got to Winterfell. There was not much he could do now. She was alone.

Well, she had him, but him alone.

He felt her shift, most likely soon to wake. He eyed her. They were surrounded by cloaks and a fur, and she was warm. Her body exuded a substantial amount of warmth, enough for them to be comfortable. But she did not like the cold for she shifted again, closer to him with her forehead scrunched up.

She was rousing now.

Jon ran his palm down the single braid she normally pinned up.

“You were wrong you know.” 

She groaned.

“Pardon?” she yawned, not even bothering to open her eyes.

“The last King in the North was not Torrhen Stark. It was my brother, Robb Stark.” Jon had wanted to tell her a long time ago. He had immediately wanted to correct her as she said it but held his tongue for it was not the point. It did not matter then, to her or to his mission. But now he wanted her to know. “He was betrayed. Murdered.”

Her eyes widened as her head lifted, “I do not know this story.” 

“Most people utter their words quietly. Especially now,” Jon spoke solemnly. “They call him The King that Lost the North.” He had never heard the words himself, thank the gods, for his actions as a result would undoubtedly be done without thought.

“I do not understand,” her voice was tired and confused. He could easily halt the discussion, but he required her comprehension for he was afraid people might think the same of him.

“He married a foreign girl. Talisa, I believe her name to be. I am not entirely sure,” he smiled grimly. “He wed her and-”

“Surely they did not kill him because he wed a foreign girl.” Daenerys began to rise but made a face after reconsidering her words.

Gently calming her, he spoke softly, “No. He broke oath,” Jon frowned. “Everyone advised him against doing so, even his own mother. He was to marry a Frey girl, so his army can pass The Twins. House Frey resides at The Twins, they guard the roads that make it so armies can pass without ships.”

“There were no banners,” she realized quickly.

“Before I left home, there was little word from them. It is as if they all disappeared,” Jon looked down. “Sansa was to keep eye out.”

“Why is it that you are telling me this?” Her head turned to the side in wary confusion. 

“Because you must understand,” Jon paused. “My brother was invited to dine with the Frey’s at his uncle’s wedding. One moment they were celebrating, the next it was said that they stabbed his wife in the stomach where she was pregnant with his child. They shot arrows into him and slit Lady Stark’s throat after she watched him, her first born son, fall.” Daenerys covered her mouth to stifle her gasp. “They then proceeded to massacre his banner men, his direwolf, Grey Wind and celebrated. It is said his direwolf’s head was sewn where his used to be, after they lopped it off.”

Many moments passed while Jon considered her varying expressions. He saw a tear slip after mentioning of the murder of his brother’s unborn child, sorrow, and then, of course, anger.

She fixed her façade in place before she spoke. “The Lannisters,” she hesitated. “Tyrion spoke of his family causing the downfall of yours.”

Jon reached out to try and smooth her impassiveness away from her features, he didn’t want to see that now, he wanted her to know she could allow herself to be vulnerable with him.

“They were. Roose Bolton, one of my brother’s bannermen. They say he was the man who finished my brother off. Struck a deal with Tywin Lannister for power. He wanted my father’s seat as Warden of the North,” Jon gulped before continuing. “So, his own bannermen betrayed him.”

Jon loved the North, truly, but trust them? No, he did not trust many. Either way, he would try to protect them as everyone did not need to pay for one man’s mistake.

He did not want her to go into his country believing all men were like him. He was hardly worthy of the amount of trust she put in him. He did not desire for her to get there and believe that him alone could protect her from decades of hatred towards her family, but he did not desire for her to hate them. He only wanted her to understand that no matter where she was in the world, there were always going to be power hungry men, violent men, manipulative men amongst everyone else who would want her dead. Not just because she was a Targaryen but because she was a woman, foreign, beautiful, and strong. She was a walking storm as her name described. Cleansing but still capable of changing the world they knew. With or without her children.

“His son married Sansa.”

“How?” Had the topic of conversation not been what it was, Jon would have laughed at the bewilderment on her face. But the matter made him tremble with fury.

“She had to go home. And he…” Jon grit his teeth as he could not seem to get the words out. “She...” He closed his mouth, voice wavering, only opening them when her hands finally covered his. “The Boltons are notorious for being vile, vile people. Theon Greyjoy-” 

“Yara’s brother?” she interrupted.

“Aye,” Jon nodded. “He was never like that.”

“Like what?”

“Meek. Modest. Compliant. Docile,” Jon spat. “He used to be arrogant and egotistical. Promiscuous. Charismatic. Robb’s closest friend, his most trusted. We grew up with him and we fought. Like brothers.”

Jon despised him in the past. His flouncing about and all of his commentary. The other man had held little respect for anyone that was not his father. “I hated him, the overly confident sod,” Jon admitted.

“When I saw him on your island when you left for Highgarden. I went after him and he did nothing; let me push him around,” Jon bowed his head, ashamed at allowing his temper to surface that day. “Ramsay Bolton, Roose’s son, formerly Ramsay Snow, defiled him. He cut him,” Jon motioned to his own private parts with a grimace as Dany nodded in understanding. “Among many other things.”

“It was a disgusting sort of karma as there was nothing Theon loved more than whores, had even built himself quite the reputation,” Jon laughed bitterly. “He was called Reek. He was no longer Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, supposed Prince of the Iron Islands,” Jon corrected himself. “He became Reek, Ramsay’s personal servant. He was forced to watch while Ramsay- she was married to a sick savage. Sansa.”

Jon used to grow furious when southern boys came to the wall, muttering about being north with cannibals and beasts until he stepped outside of his father’s castle, stepped north of the wall and realized, many of them actually were just that.

“Theon helped save her. These were the same people who crowned him, Robb, King in the North as well,” Jon looked at her, finding her eyes, which were always full of either discontent or understanding. Or sometimes, like now, both. “My brother was good. Better than me at everything except fighting and forging. You would have liked him.”

Jon did not want to accept the resentment that coursed through him thinking of all the ways in which Robb could have been in his position right now, with her. Had Talisa not been around, or that Frey girl. Had Daenerys and he stood together to take out the threat south, perhaps this could have been his brother. Him and her laying together.

His own self-doubt raced through his blood. Robb was loved by mostly everyone that met him. 

“I like you as you are,” she reached towards him, seeming to hear his awful thoughts. 

“Dangerous words, Targaryen queen,” he smiled sadly. “But truly, he would have charmed you. He knew how to speak to anyone, especially women,” Jon laughed. “So effortlessly,” Jon jutted out his lip in a mocking pout as he looked at his queen who only raised her eyebrow at him. “I suppose he had to, being the heir and all. Not in a bad way either. Hardly half the licentious fool Theon once was. Though you might have found that mildly entertaining.”

“Perhaps.”

“You do not seem to be convinced,” Jon eyed her squinted irises.

“Most men flatter me. You do not flatter me, Jon Snow. You make me feel unalike, but not alone, without even words.” Her words filled him with raw emotion, so much so that he leaned in to place his lips upon hers.

It was a slow languid kiss, full of careful lust and uncontrolled feeling. She sighed into him before opening her eyes, neither of them pulling away. “You must comprehend that we are entering a tremendously dangerous place quite soon.” Jon lifted his palm to her cheek. “My brother did as he pleased. He fell in love with a foreign woman.”

“He abandoned his duty,” Jon slid his hand to her neck, “his responsibility,” he lifted his other to swipe a loose hair caught in her eyelash, “his oath,” he pressed his lips to hers once more before pulling back. “And married for love. He was killed for it no matter how many battles he’d won. What he stood for. None of that mattered.”

“He sounded like a good man.”

“He is a deceased man.” Jon did not care about dying, not before. Now, now as she laid beside him and his sisters and brother were so close he could practically feel them, now he cared.

“My crown exists only because it is he who is gone.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she turned from him.

“You must understand.” Jon pulled her back despite her attempts at pushing him away.

“What are you telling me, Jon Snow?”

They could not _appear_ like this, Jon wanted to say, but she should have already known that. The north has been through great strife, to see another woman they think to be foreign at the side of their king- “People, especially of the north. We are survivors.” 

“That is good to hear,” she eyed his grip on her arm.

He shook his head, apologizing for his strong hold. “Never trust a survivor until you have found out what he or she has done to live.”

“What have _you_ done to survive?” she retorted, harshly, eyes glazing over.

“I pretended to love a woman,” he watched her cautiously. She swallowed, leaning away. “To infiltrate her community. I made her love me. And she died for it.” He waited for her to run, grab her cloak and _run_. She should have run.

“I loved her by the end of it though, but it was not what she deserved. I have killed many men, children.” He waited for her to scream at him. “Manipulated.” She had once spoke of him being too forthright. “Broke promises,” his own voice cracked. “Lied,” he tried to get her to start moving away from him, and yet she was still there.

“You are not a liar, Jon Snow,” she shook her head, dawning realization in her eyes. “You are not evil,” she shrugged.

“I try not to be.”

 

***

 

 

It was their last day on the road and Daenerys would not sleep.

He did, however.

Every time he spoke gravely, it was like a weight came off of him and then settled on her.

Daenerys would never let him know though.

He sought to sway her, change her feelings, change his own. But it was too late now. It had been too late since Eastwatch by the Sea.

“It is so quiet,” Jon awoke. The sun was rising and she was already dressed.

“Yes,” she commented softly. It was quite contenting. 

“How long have I been asleep?” he rubbed at his eyes, his voice hoarse.

“A long time,” she lied, smoothly, smiling at the alarm crossing his face before he realized she was mocking him.

“What?” his brows furrowed, as they always did. Every day. At least a million times.

It was too loaded of a question for her to answer. _What- what? What color was the sky? What color was the snow? What color was the ocean? What day was it? What was her favorite food? What does she think about the possibility of advancing civilization to a point of the depletion of natural resources?_  

Too loaded, indeed.

“Nothing,” she shook her head, still smiling.

“What?” he probed, leaning upwards.

Daenerys shook her head again.

“What-” He paused, contemplating. “What are you thinking right now?”

“I think,” she started, looking away, “I think I know the sound of your heart.”

 

+

 

“So, what is it that we are doing here?” Daenerys’ voice rang, though somewhat distorted because of the wind blowing in his ears.

“I just need a moment,” he called to her as he steadied his horse, looking around. He caught a questioning glance from her. “The last time I was here, in this very spot, my father promised me he would tell me who my mother was.”

The grassy plain was now covered in snow. There were no bannermen, no Robert Baratheon, nothing. Only him, her and their horses.  “Nobody knew but him.” 

He gave her a sad smile that matched hers. “It was the last time I saw him.” 

Jon remembered that he smelled of leather, always. Leather and felt of fur. Jon tried not to think of his father as much as possible, for it would begin to eat at him as well. 

He would never hear his voice again. To get lectured on strength and responsibility.

Up until recently, he felt entirely alone in his duties. Though he knew that he would not be here had his father still been around, he thought of trading it all. Until he heard her songlike voice. “How long ago was that?”

“Ages,” he swallowed tilting his head towards the sky for guidance. She waited patiently without word at his odd behavior. For that he was appreciative.

Jon peered at her for a moment before sticking his hand out, pulling her to him with his other. “Do you see that over there?”

“That great big grey cloud?” she asked, squinting dramatically.

Rolling his eyes, “No, the pointy bit.” He motioned for her to pull her horse closer to where he was.

“Above the great big grey cloud?” Daenerys peeked, her brows raised.

“Aye,” he grumbled.

Her lips tugged into a grin, turning her horse to canter in front of him, making herself his view. “Yes.”

“That’s Winterfell.”

“Looks small.” She threw her head to side with a snicker.

Pursing his lips, he responded with a frown. “From here.”

“You can hardly see it,” she teased. He allowed her, knowing the place was massive.

Just to see her smile, he would permit her this cock comparing test. “Aye, wait till we get closer.”

“How far are we?” she looked from him to the castle and back at him again with a frown.

“Not far.” A few hours if they went slow.

“Can your guards see us?”

“Probably not,” Jon shook his head. “Definitely not you. You blend in. My horse is darker.”

“Let us move in a bit and maybe they will draw you a carriage.” Something had changed within her between last night and this morning. Her spirits were high and excited. Her excitement was something that surrounded them like the purest air.

Jon still scowled though. “We are going to ride to those trees and leave anything we don’t need, and then walk.”

He tried his best at hiding the grin begging to form at the way her face dropped. “Pardon?" 

“I am going to sneak you in,” Jon clarified, arching his eyebrow, waiting for the protest he was almost positive would come.

“Am I going to be your secret now?” Of course not. _Anything mildly mischievous would certainly excite her_ , he thought. “The King’s secret,” she bit her lip with contemplation before giving him the realm’s most devilish smirk. 

A breath escaped his lips before diverting his eyes far, far away from her darkening ones. “You could not be a secret in a castle for long, no matter how hard you tried, Your Grace.”

“I can,” she protested.

He frowned at her, hiding his amusement, “Do you want to be?”

“Come along, Jon Snow.” No. No, she would not. She would never want to be anyone’s secret. Every bone in her body, hair on her head, and word to grace her lips fought her own suppression. 

“I’ll race you. Try to keep up without breaking your stitches, old man,” she called out, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Old man?” he objected. “Because I am wounded? Are we not the same age?” he pressed his horse to follow after her, though he knew he could not catch her.

She was fast and swift, he had learned halfway through their trip. Even on his good days, unwounded, he struggled to keep up. And today was a better day for he was finally home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter....
> 
> “Is this where young Jon Snow used to dream about ladies and their lady's maids, being a knight, perhaps, or some great warrior?” she teased, lightening the mood.
> 
> “Perhaps.”
> 
> “Princesses? Queens?” Dany probed.
> 
> “Swords. Leaving,” he raised his eyebrow, challenging her.
> 
> “Of course,” she accepted defeat, pouting.
> 
> \---
> 
> Is it Lady's and their lady's maids or ladies and their lady's maids or..? 
> 
> Y'all. LMFAOOO UNBETA-ED EXCERPT
> 
> Iane got me this early this week and I battled with myself on whether I wanted to get this out fast or get it out right. 
> 
> I started this story for my friend as you guys probably already know and then in hope to make myself a better writer which sometimes involves me doing so heavy editing and scraping. 
> 
> Sometimes I also bite off more than I can chew and struggle between writing what I WANT to write vs what I think you guys will like and then vs what will FIT the story. 
> 
> So my deepest apologies to those that were let down and those who have waited long.
> 
> I am growing and learning with this piece and do take in all the constructive criticism. This story had kind of become my test baby and I work hard on it!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed nonetheless. Please be kind to me and leave a comment. I appreciate them so much, especially the ones where you guys start demanding the next chapter after a month with no update (ship1013 & aliciutza), I appreciate y'all for making me write harder <333.
> 
> Thank you for staying around if you are still here, and welcome if you are new. I love you too! Please comment and love me even if it's just a heart or a message like "yo bro its been 84 years!"
> 
> Love y'all <3
> 
> The next part's beginning is shaping up to be 50 pages which I will split into two chapters. Pray for Iane because she hasn't seen it yet :D


	9. Get You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could have handled that better,” Jon remarked. Her attitude was, as he said, better than how it could’ve been, but worse than how he knew she could have conducted herself.
> 
> “I was in my night gown, Jon,” Sansa bit out with bitter embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii y'all! Pls don't hate me. K thnx. I was at damn near 50 pages and I thought I got it down to the 30s but here I am, with 40 pages and VERY VERY VERY VERYYYYY nervous.
> 
> This is where I put my trigger warning; mentions rape and depicts, probably not well, Dany’s PTSD in the midst of some sexual situations. 
> 
> It starts at the "#######" part and feel free to skip it, I just felt that it was important for it to happen in my story for the relationship to progress as it will in the following chapters.
> 
> If you get confused without reading it, just leave any questions for me and I'll clarify.
> 
> I spent a lot of time reading about how to properly and sensitively write on the subject which is why it took me an extra week to get this to Iane- who is an angel! and has the patience of a saint.
> 
> I am convinced she is trying to get rid of me but I'm trying to hold on to her for as long as possible! So as always, thank you Iane for being amazing.
> 
> Here's a nice song I listened to while I wrote this: Get you - Daniel Caesar (Yes I am basic)
> 
> And hope you guys enjoy and sorry for typos if I fucked Iane's hard work up!

_ PART III _ _: death before dishonor – the calm before the storm._

 

 

“I thought you would be hissing at me to mind the sound of my steps or tell me to stop breathing for a moment _for my need of oxygen is too troublesome_ ,” Dany mocked as Jon lifted his head to the stone ceiling in mild annoyance, ignoring the triumphed smile from the queen. 

 _Anything to evoke an expression out of you,_ she kept insisting.

“Make as much noise here, the walls are thick. The echoing does not begin until we turn that corner,” he pointed towards another dimly lit corridor. 

“But what if a guard walks by?” She feigned worry, dramatically. 

Jon would have never assumed her to be a woman of theatrics _yet there she was_.

Giving her an exasperated look, he spoke that running into a guard was not possible, adding, “But we are home now.” The men on duty were ones he selected himself, therefore Jon was not too concerned at the moment. Daenerys still had her scarf and hooded cloak. He could get away with walking around with her, Dany had reminded him earlier. He was a king.

Parading women around the lands, even with his absenteeism, would be brushed under the rug and recognized as male monarch behavior. Admittedly, it had made him feel dirty when she spoke the blunt truth. Thoughts of himself being disreputable made him cringe so hard he had missed the falter in her step, for he did not understand how much the utterance of ‘we’ instead of ‘I’ meant to her.

He just urged her along unknowingly, _guiltily_ , tugging at her arm, only wincing when she bumped into him.

The pain of his injury was not unbearable but after their horse riding, he was not in the best condition, not that he would ever admit it.

“You are quite good at this, King Snow. You always fancied sneaking women into your chambers?” Dany practically chirped, vibrating with mischief and delight. 

Jon turned to scowl at her implication, ready to snap that he would be whipped through Winterfell had Lady Stark found him just as much as thinking about sneaking so little as a kitchen maid to his room but the twinkle in her eyes made him halt.

“No,” was all he said, pursing his lips but failing to hide the growing smirk she was pulling from him.

“Stay here,” he pressed her shoulder against another wall putting a finger to his lips before walking straight.

 

After dismissing a guard, Jon made his way towards his father’s old rooms urging Dany along.

Once they entered the large seating area, he turned to the queen, eyeing her for any uneasiness.

Her shoulders seemed relaxed as she nodded, taking in her surroundings while Jon began to walk away. He had only taken a few quiet steps forward before turning back to kiss her.

Her lips were dry, so Jon knew she was nervously licking them when he wasn’t looking, and by the way she rested into him, he could tell that she was worried.

Leaning his head to hers, Jon ran his thumb against her bottom lip, grazing the edge of her white teeth, tapping a reassuring kiss to her once more. Dragging himself away, he silently made his way into his sister’s bed chamber where Ghost was lying on the hard floors.

The wolf quickly perked up as Jon entered.

He whispered a quick command that left Ghost silently wagging his tail, begging to whine happily for his master.

Calling for the white mass to come towards him and sit, Jon patted his head which almost reached his, with a smile and a heavy heart as he contemplated the calmest way to wake his sister without her getting frightened, or yelling at him.

Settling on a few pokes to her foot, she arose abruptly with a blade in her hand and wild eyes, hair sticking up in every which direction. 

Jon recoiled as she blinked a few times, dropped the knife beside her, allowing it to clamor to the ground and rubbed her face.

With misted eyes, Jon nodded, saying without word that he was indeed there before Sansa flung herself forward, trapping her lower half in the blankets, pulling him to her in an enormous hug.

“It’s okay. It’s me. Sorry,” words rushed from him as he smoothed fright from her body.

Jon stayed in the embrace for as long as he could, taking in her clean, citrusy smell.

Her hair had grown longer but hung with less volume than he was used to, which made him think about his beard which had probably grown dreadfully long.

As he rubbed his palms down her back, comfortingly, he noticed her tresses were brittle though it swished, slapping his cheeks when she pulled away sharply. “How?”

“Long story,” Jon uttered, waving his hand, hoping feebly that she would leave it alone.

“There is time.” _Fucking hell._ Her stare was strong and bold, piercing even in the dim light. 

“I just wanted to inform you that I am home,” he stepped back, motioning with his hands that he was here, leaving no room for an argument though it would come anyway.

“The guards, the bells,” Sansa’s body grew tense with wariness.

“I did not come through the front,” Jon admitted, head down, not wishing to quarrel.

“The back, far side of the baily?”

He smiled towards her, nodding.

It was how he, Theon, and Rob used to sneak back into the castle when Theon insisted on visiting the town- well, the brothels in the town. Jon had _tried_ to stay clear of those.

Sansa would always catch them as she would leave to find something to eat in the early hours of the morning.

“There was no ice. I was expecting ice,” Jon shook his head. “You have done exceptionally well.”

He hoped by complementing her, he would be able to free himself of her scolding.

_It did not work._

“You look horrible,” she muttered, distaste prevalent in her tone as she judged his clothing and stroked the hair on his chin.

He had put on what remained of his garments that he wore in the Pit a moon ago, so they were considerably rumpled. Dany had also made it her mission to successfully comb through his hair with her fingers the previous night so that he could pile it on his head.

As Sansa sat back, she drew her knees to her chest, yawning, putting her hair up the same way he did.

Guilt hit him as he noticed the wrinkles forming on her forehead. “I really missed you,” he sighed reaching out for his sibling, hoping that it would be some consolation.

“You too, mate. Stay,” he ordered Ghost before the wolf sat up, whining.

“He been protecting you?” Jon jutted his chin out towards his beast of a hound.

“He has been as absentee as his sire,” Sansa’s lips pursed as she leaned over to light another candle on the table beside the bed.

Jon frowned at himself and Ghost, who lowered his head.

When a thump sounded from the sitting room, he quickly set a command out to the wolf to stay put and rushed out the room hoping that a guard did not walk into his sisters’ chambers and see the queen.

When Jon stepped back into the sitting room, Daenerys was in a corner with a fallen candelabra and wide eyes.

She mouthed her apology, but it was too late as Sansa had climbed out of bed and walked out of her room, “What is it-?”

His sister paused, “Who-” she blinked. “Your Grace,” she curtsied impeccably before turning sharply to him. “Jon-”

“This is Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon breathed out as Dany stepped over the fallen unlit candle.

“I understand,” Sansa hissed at him. “I also understand that I am in my night dress, Jon.”

Sansa was deflecting from the accusation on her face with incontestable etiquette but Jon could not find the proper words to insist that he had not stolen the Dragon Queen. Not purposely, at least.

He shut his eyes, before glancing at his sisters crumpled, lightly colored, and thick, shift.

“It is no worry,” Dany managed to whisper, inching closer, eyes widening as she took in his sister’s height.

“I would have-” Sansa motioned to her appearance, the room, perhaps the solar and castle as well. Anxiety was in her posture.

“It is fine, Sansa,” Jon interrupted with slight assertion and a wave of his hand motioning for her to calm down.

“This is Sansa Stark, my sister. Lady Sansa-” he tried a formal introduction, nodding towards Daenerys whose lips quirked at his discomfort.

“My lady,” Dany bowed politely.

“I definitely would have not looked like this…” Sansa said under her breath, shaking her head before taking in the appearance of the queen. His sister’s eyes squinted, looking from him to Daenerys, asking, “What is going on?”

Jon repeated that it was a long story.

“Is my room available?” he questioned, as she opened her mouth to argue.

Simpering down, taking in his tenor, Sansa replied, “Aye.” But not without the northern pride they were known for. “Arya is in _Rickon’s_ and Bran is in _Robb’s_.”

Their eyes connected, in warning. “Minor repairs,” she offered to the queen who was held by their calm antagonism.

“You should stay here,” she let down her hair before scooping it back into something she deemed more impressionable, then proceeded to move towards the fallen candelabra.

“Sansa, no one can know,” Jon exhaled.

His sister froze. Without looking back at them, she started, “It may be a tad dusty-”

“Where will we hide Her Grace?” her head finally turned towards them.

“It is fine.” It was all Jon said and the room that once held a warmth seemed to grow exponentially cold.

With an audible swallow, Sansa said, standing, making sure the candle holder was upright once more, “I will find some things in the wardrobe.”

She acknowledged the queen before looking at her brother, “Come back, Jon, and be careful. I do not think Arya to be asleep yet. She wanders.”

“It is the middle of the night.” Jon stated with furrowed brows.

“I am aware,” Sansa bit knowing all well what Jon was asking but decided against compliance. With a curtsey, she started on her stride to the double doors.

As Sansa disappeared, Dany gave him a sad smile before looking down.

 

+

 

The walk to Jon’s bedroom had been quiet and to both their displeasure, uncomfortable.

Sansa wanted to speak with him alone, again, and that night. She had made that abundantly clear. Coupled with that fact, Jon had pulled Dany down a narrow corridor that looked to be in the direction of a glorified cupboard but alas, it held a single door with carvings that one would not deem purposeful upon first glance.

Jon threw his shoulder into the door knowing he had to push it a certain way to get it to open, mumbling that his room had been one of the few parts of the castle that did not burn down.

After motioning for her to walk in while he lit a candle, Jon watched her face fall.

“This used to be your chamber?” she turned around, closing the door.

“Aye,” Jon responded, mimicking her despondency. It was not grand or nearly as accommodable as Dragonstone had been, but it was not _that_ terrible either, just small.

“This far?” _And far._

Jon had not realized that they had been walking for some time. Growing up in the room, he had been used to it, so it never crossed his mind.

“It is still in the solar.” Which he had been happy about for he could have ended up sleeping in the stables.

Probably sensing his discomfort, Daenerys stopped speaking, allowing Jon to calmly change the subject.

“That went better than I expected,” he remarked, frowning.

“I expected her to purse her lips and scowl more at me,” she chuckled before allowing him to continue.

“It could have gone far worse,” Jon mumbled in agreement and wondered if it was more for himself than her.

“She is properly suspicious and cautious,” Daenerys approved, eyeing around, feeling at the walls.

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his voice wavering as he watched her float around the room looking for something, he supposed.

“Apologies, it is not as grand.”

“No, it is not that,” her face turned back to normal after noticing his scowl. “They kept you here?”

Waving her arm around, Jon noticed she was holding back more words, but the room was in its best shape even after Ramsay Bolton. It looked like a spare solar room so Jon believed no one thought anything of it.

“It is better than where I could have been kept,” he reminded her once more of his former title, attempting to keep the bite out of his tone.

Shaking her head, she sighed and sat down in the chair by the small wooden desk. She looked sadly at him and struggled to smile.

“It had heat,” he waved off what he grasped as her protectiveness. “A pretty decent bed,” he added. “It could fit my wolf and I comfortably and I like being secluded anyway.”

“You were being _excluded_ ,” she stated with hardened anger he only saw behind her eyes.

“Depends on how you view it,” Jon defended though he was not sure why.

“Jon Snow, I cannot believe I am saying this, but you are more optimistic than I,” she turned her back to him and felt along the wooden table.

“If I thought about it the way you are, I would be more miserable than I already am,” Jon admitted softly, watching her head snap towards him quickly.

“You are miserable still?”

He wanted to say yes. He wished the answer to her melancholic question was yes, but it was not. “No,” Jon looked down.

“Sansa knows,” he mumbled shortly after.

“Of course she knows,” Dany snorted offhandedly. “If she did not know from when you introduced me with that tone, she definitely knew when you did not ask for separate rooms.”

“No one will come here,” Jon explained his reasoning. “And I like this room.”

Standing up from the chair, she went to the four-poster bed that needed to be further dressed. Knowing she could probably remedy that with just some extra linens, Dany smiled to Jon, “I suppose it is not so bad.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Is this where young Jon Snow used to dream about ladies and their ladies’ maids, being a knight, perhaps, or some great warrior?” she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Perhaps.”

“Princesses? Queens?” Dany probed.

“Swords. Leaving,” he raised his eyebrow in challenge.

“Of course.” She accepted defeat, pouting.

 

+

 

Before he had taken his leave to speak with his sister, he had decided to make Daenerys comfortable, leaving her with the task of penning a message to Dragonstone.

_“Stop,” he warned her as she started to ogle him. “The walls are thin,” Jon pointed out though, if she moved towards him, he would not stop her._

_“We are far away but still, I did nothing,” she blinked, giving him an innocent but toothy smile as she removed her boots._

_A movement she made caused Jon to let out a breathy chuckle, because she was now sitting on the ground pulling at her worn foot wear and shabby socks, wiggling her toes._

_He rolled his eyes at her attempt to lighten the impending tension._

_Quickly looking for a chest, he found one in a corner and pulled a tunic to offer Dany to wear until he found something appropriate. However, when he turned around to her semi naked form, he noticed a bit of purple on her ivory skin._

_Her back had been to him so she did jump a bit when his hand came down to touch her, slipping the shift dress upward to see her ribs. Some of her skin was tinted yellow and Jon wondered if she had broken them. **No. She would not have been able to ride much unless someone set it.**_

_But, that could have happened._

_Jon hardly remembered the events after they had been caught by those men. He remembered getting off the horse, but had blacked out shortly after. He had barely gotten a good look under his bandaging but by Daenerys’ face he knew it had been unpleasant._

_She had panicked, more so than he’d previously seen her. He remembered her telling him to stay up, but he was almost positive he had failed at that._

_They did not talk about it._

_“You did not show me this,” his thumb swiped along the dark parts of the mark, anger rising in his throat._

_Jon knew that his eyes were getting progressively darker and, most likely, scary, from the way she flinched. “What happened?”_

_“One of the men kicked me,” her voice wavered as she looked away, ashamed but not at the fact that the man kicked her. He was dead. She was not embarrassed at getting hurt during an attack, but that she had kept it from him. “I am fine.”_

_She was fine, but he was livid and doing a well enough job at keeping his fury in. He was supposed to be the one looking out for her. “You did not tell me.”_

_“If I had shown pain, what would you have done?”_

**_Nothing_ ** _, besides getting guilt-ridden and try not to touch her as much as he had. Which she would have been angry about._

_Daenerys was not glass, that Jon understood, but for her to be in that state because of him, maddened him._

_He looked at her side warily and helped her slip on the tunic despite her protests that she could do it on her own._

_That had explained why she had been wincing._

_Jon had thought that it was his perpetual glower, or her thighs again, but not that type of injury. He would find something for the bruising and pain though the worst of it was over._

_“We never did speak on what happened,” he threw over his shoulder. “Do you wish to?” he asked, ashamed that he did not think of her feelings before. She was not him. She was not a soldier trained for war as he was. The lives he took nowadays just blended together. “You killed a man, more than one.”_

_“I have killed many men, Jon Snow. More men than you may haps,” her voice faltered, making him look back._

_He heard about the fields of fire that was High Garden, **sure**. He knew that by the ghost of her words, she had defeated thousands. But that was different._

_“Aye, but by your own hands?” Jon turned his entire body to her, as she had done the same to him._

_They had not spoken of her past in depth, only loosely, therefore Jon was unaware that although Daenerys had considered Drogo dead when he was in his vegetated state, thus murdered by the witch that put him there, she was the one that put a pillow to his face and felt his last breath leave him._

_She did not answer him, and Jon assumed it was because she hadn’t an answer to that. She was not apprehensive about stating such, but she did not wish for that to be used against her as well._

_“Your sister is waiting for you. Go,” she secured the shirt that reached her thighs as she walked towards the desk looking for parchment. “No need to fuss about me. Worry about yourself, Sansa may or may not be plotting your next death.”_

It would be a nice thought, Sansa not being cross, but that idea had violently escaped as soon as he entered his sister’s chambers.

“Ghost, will you stop pacing, you’re getting fur everywhere, he will be back,” Sansa huffed. “Sit down you bloody oaf.”

Jon attempted to hide his chuckle, but it slipped out. Finishing it with a loud cough, he scolded his sister, “Mind your tongue, Lady Stark.”

Her head snapped back to his form leaning on the door frame, “You have him stressed out,” she frowned.

“ _You_ have him stressed out,” Jon corrected. “Practically pulling your hair out. Have you gotten bigger?” he did a double take, glaring at her slippers. “You are even taller, and you have no boots on.”

Sansa made a face. Her height had not been lost to her throughout the years. She was taller than most women and many men.

“You have boots on and you’re still so small,” she sniffed, mocking. “My little big brother.”

“Fuck off.”

It grew silent, with the two siblings eying each other up. They were testing each other’s might as if they were two wolves facing off. _But they were not_. Not again, not _yet_.

Jon winced at the amount of vulnerability shining in her eyes.

“Everyone is… so weird,” she turned her back to him, attempting to busy herself as she did when she was overwhelmed.

Jon smiled but it was not long for Sansa had gotten straight to what was really on her mind. “Are you and her…?”

Jon paused for a beat, “Don’t ask questions you do not wish to know the answer to.”

Sansa slowly spun back to him as he shook his head, “No, don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

Jon watched her slowly come to some sort of realization. “Petyr Baelish was correct,” she mumbled, half with a bitter laugh.

“Here,” she pushed some linens towards him.

“You could have handled that _better_ ,” Jon remarked, knowing that she had known since she had seen the queen. Her attitude was, as he said, better than how it could’ve been, but worse than how he knew she could have conducted herself. 

“I was in my night gown, Jon,” she bit out with bitter embarrassment. “She is beautiful. Even when you both looked absolutely wrecked,” she threw back at him in a regrettable admittance. “Why is it that you both look absolutely wrecked?” Sansa’s brows knitted together in suspicion as she tried her hardest to _subtly_ pull information out of her brother.

“We rode here from Kings Landing? She’s been as close to slumming it than she has been in years I would presume,” Jon gave her some truth with a slight wave of his hands.

“She has not had a great life, Sansa.” Not that the queen’s story would go far with his sister, but Jon still wanted to put that in the open.

Understanding Daenerys went a long way with her and her advisors. Agreement was not always an option. In fact, in the moons he had been away from Winterfell and in her company, agreement had rarely been an option.

“Has anybody, really?” Sansa started shifting through some chests.

“I suppose not,” Jon acknowledged. “Though we have it better than some.”

Slowly rising from a pile she made, Sansa threw a glare at her brother, “Everyone has problems based on how they live, saying it is better or worse is hardly fair.”

Scorn was apparent on her face, so Jon made a sound of loose understanding.

Sansa ignored the noise and repeated her earlier questions of the happenings at the Pit but this time desiring the whereabouts of Lady Brienne.

“I do not know but there was a conflict- Her- the queen’s dragon came-,” Jon started but was interrupted as Sansa stood up quickly, eyes wide.

“They are truly real?” she asked, horrified.

“Aye.”

“Gods, and you don’t look terrified,” a humorless laughed escaped from in between her teeth. “You wouldn’t.”

“I touched one,” Jon shrugged. He wished he could say that they became a little less terrifying after that, but he couldn’t. It was then he understood their true power; the heat that radiated beneath their skin, the emotions coursing through their massive bodies and the ancient power being wielded by their very existence. They were otherworldly even in lands of magic and the unknown.

“Jon!”

Normally his reflexes where better, but he had been in his own head as her hands went flying towards him.

“Ow,” he started shrinking away in pain as her fists collided with his torso and his arms.

“I told you not to die,” she said in between punches. 

“I am alive,” he tried gripping at her hands right as they went for his wound.

She paused as he shrank. _Barely._

“Why is your face paling then?” she halted mid swing. “Why are you making those noises?” she stood straighter. “What have you done? Jon!”

“I am alright. Stop fussing,” he gripped her fists.

 

+

 

Sansa could give him credit. He hid the pain well.

It took a few minutes of coercing before she finally pulled at his cloak and tried to feel for an injury.

“Every time I see you again you have new wounds. Let me have a look,” she puffed out, lips turning down as she smacked the hands that tried to stop her.

“Ow, Gods. Have you lost your mind?”

_No, I am the only sane Stark left._

She gave him an expression that told him that whatever was causing his pain should be displayed by the time she was in front of him again.

Fetching a basket of medicinal supplies, Sansa reclaimed her spot and glared at her brother.

“Why do you have these things in your room?” Jon stared at her skeptically.

Sansa supposed it would be strange to have a Maester’s cupboard transportable but when you had an accident-prone squire at your every turn, it was practical.

“Podrick had a nosebleed a few days ago and Arya, she cut him in his arm by accident yesterday when they were training. Long story,” she dismissed, focused on Jon’s wound, ignoring his other stab marks.

It looked awful. It did not look to be something that could not be fixed but it had to have been deeply infected at some point as yellowish flesh surrounded the area where a scab was beginning to form. There were bruises scattered around his stomach as well, especially outlining the worst of the damage.

“And so, you have supplies in your chambers for him?”

Silence.

Sansa contemplated how that sounded and cautiously watched her brother who surprisingly did not have a gloomy look on his face, just one of perplexation.

“You spend much time with him?” his eyebrow raised as she evaded any more eye contact. She took that time to clean his wound, applying a bit more pressure than necessary, making him groan. 

“Looking for a distraction, aren’t you? Spend some time south and now you begin to pull something from nothing like them,” she discarded a piece of cloth. “He follows me around.”

“He fancies you?”

_And there goes Jon. No tact._

Sansa rolled her eyes, “No.”

Her brother snorted. 

“I do not believe so.” She chose her words more carefully that time.

“Why would he be following you around like that?” _Why are you being so annoying?_

“I mean, sometimes I call upon him, he’s a squire,” Sansa dismissed, quickly dressing his wound back up.

“ _You_ fancy him,” Jon shot back at her, leaning forward.

“No,” she denied, affronted. “Is that what you do when you court someone? Follow them about?”

Sansa huffed as she threw supplies back into the basket.

“He is Podrick Payne. _Brienne’s squire_ ,” she stated as if titles had anything to do with the heart. 

“She is training him to be a knight, no?” Jon questioned further.

 _Attempting to._ Podrick was no knight. Sansa believed him to be too sensitive even though she had seen him kill a man.

Fighting was a means of survival and she was not entirely sure he prized survival that strongly either.

“She left him here? Her squire,” Jon probed.

“They did not trust me here alone with Baelish,” was Sansa’s curt reply.

“Good.” The word _they_ was not lost to Jon.

“Still does not answer why you are always together,” her brother pushed.

“He watches over me,” she sighed.

Sansa did not feel like mentioning how uncomfortable it was to be in Winterfell the last few moons. She would give her brother a full report of the on-goings when he was ready to be forthcoming.

“You can be honest with me,” Jon said softly.

She wondered if this is what he expected from her for she found that people normally acted the way they wished to be treated.

“I do not wish to be alone,” Sansa ground out between her teeth, standing up to put the basket away.

Alone was an interesting concept to her.

Sansa could deal with loneliness but seclusion she could not any longer.

She struggled to admit it, so she purposefully walked away from her brother’s reach. Jon looked shamefaced, because he did, in fact, leave her alone. “And he is not malicious in the least. I do not have to try and hide or play clever games with him as I _did_ with Petyr.”

“Did?”

_At least my brother is discerning._

“Where is Lord Baelish?” Jon sat up, pulling his tunic back down, his eyes hard.

“Dead.”

Jon’s mouth slowly spread into a smile.

Sansa thought he was finally losing it. “Why are you smiling?”

“I am not,” he shook his head, his lips still tugging upwards. “What happened?”

“Nothing. What happened?” she shot back at him, angry about the lack of information he was willing to share with her as well.

Sansa knew he could easily find out, so she did not feel bad at all.

“Aye. Aye,” he raised his hands in mock defeat.

The two siblings stared at each other until Jon caved and loosely explained what he could recollect. And by the time they finished speaking, Sansa had grown paler, if possible.

While she gathered up the last of the items she was giving Jon, she mumbled, “I saw to him out there,” she pointed to the door, signaling that she was talking about the solar. _Podrick_. “Not in here.”

“I only brought it up twice,” Jon arched his eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips.

“In case,” Sansa paused. “I know my duty. And it is not as you must think. I-“

“I do not know what duty you speak of, for you are Lady of Winterfell, Queen Regent in my absence and my troubling sister. I won’t bring it up a fourth,” Jon dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Even being perhaps the most normal sibling in the kingdom, she would still be the troublesome one in his eyes. 

Sansa knew that he was in for a rude awakening.

 

 

***

 

 

“You eat those now?” 

In the following days, Sansa was in a flurried state for her plans had been discarded. Jon had told her that if all went well that they would have a little under one hundred thousand Dothraki and around eight thousand Unsullied arriving within a fortnight and a half.

While Sansa was substantially worried, the threat north could be dealt with more confidentially and the threat south- well, it was enormous but _vague_ with Jon’s _vague_ accounts. But it could all be better dealt with now. They had allies. Not ones she absolutely trusted, but Jon did and that was better than nothing. It was what they needed; the obsidian and the armies.

Sansa’s biggest problems were the north’s reaction to foreign occupancy, keeping Jon’s whereabouts secret from Arya- because Bran probably already knew, the growing rebellion and now, Jon’s fondness for the Targaryen Queen.

“Pardon,” Sansa glanced at Podrick who looked to be studying her intently.

“You never eat those?” It was a tray of fruit tarts left in the solar as a treat for her by one of the maidservants.

“I do,” Sansa lied through her teeth. _She did not._

She hated mixed fruit tarts. The combination of textures and flavors drove her mad. She never touched them, and as she watched Podrick’s brows furrow, she now wondered as to why they were continuously brought to the solar.

“You really do not, my lady. They are always there, and I normally eat them.” _Well, that is why._

Sansa glanced at the tray she was holding to carry to her chambers for the Targaryen Queen to eat and pushed it towards Podrick condescendingly, “My apologies, did you want to finish all of these?”

She immediately deflated, regretting it, when he looked down and swallowed. “No-no, my lady,” he stuttered. “I could stand to be in better shape for when Lady Brienne arrives back.”

When Sansa collected the message that was to be sent to Dragonstone a few nights ago, she had inquired once more, hoping that perhaps the foreign Queen would have seen something but she did not. But Jon had disclosed that a boy named Gendry Waters, and hopefully Ser Davos, would be there soon and have more information.

“Do you always watch what I eat?” She blurted out the question before she could control her curiosity. Jon had properly messed with her head.

“I, uh… Is that a trick?” She did miss the shuffling of the squire’s feet. “No and yes, my lady. I just notice what milady prefers. I apologize.” Podrick stared at his feet again.

“It is fine,” Sansa sighed and recovered. “I just wanted something different is all.”

When the squire glanced back up, Sansa knew he was not convinced. “What is it, Podrick?” she hissed. “Speak.”

The command was based from fear of her getting caught. She could not understand why this man chose to be so forthright, but respectful. At every turn she found herself mentally scolding herself for being unnecessarily harsh as he was just attempting to guard and assist her.

“For a person who was raised with lions, I’d think you to be a better liar,” he admitted from beneath his short, straight lashes.

Sansa glanced around wildly, pulling the squire by his arm, with the tray in her other, to her chambers.

The office in the solar was something Arya checked consistently nowadays for whenever she had meetings with the staff, so she did not trust it.

By the time she stepped inside her rooms, she blanched realizing she was doing exactly the opposite of what she had spoken to Jon.

Podrick was in her room.

She placed the tray on the foot of the bed and began pacing around. She did not have to tell him, but she wanted to. She wanted to speak to someone about what was going on. It was nice to think out loud, but this was no minor detail, and what Sansa knew was monumentally important and private.

Sansa glimpsed at the man before looking to her fingers, wringing them. “Your calculations are hardly fair,” she muttered. “You grew up south as well, Ser. You have an unfair advantage at deducing dishonesty.”

Sansa sat on a small tufted stool and rubbed her face. She wondered back to how Queen Cersei lived as she did, or Queen Daenerys. Not that she was Queen, but someone with considerable power.

 _Not happily, of course_ , she thought bitterly. Well, Sansa was not sure about the silver queen, but Cersei was a miserable bitch and after all this time, she fathomed why.

Sighing, Sansa peered up to the squire and met his warm eyes. Podrick had never said that he was to be trusted like everyone else would tell her, and then go in to betray her or plot against her and her family.

Podrick had never touched her on purpose or looked at her funnily. He never asked anything of her unless they were odd questions on what her ideals were. He was just there, _being Podrick_ , getting beat by Arya and following her around protectively.

Sansa swallowed, meeting mahogany eyes. “My brother is home. Those dried fruits,” she pointed to a wardrobe that held a bowl on top of it that she had taken from the kitchen, “These tarts,” Sansa waved to the bed, “Are for the Queen,” she paused waiting for Podrick to pale but he just simply waited for further explanation. “Queen Daenerys Targaryen, that he, Jon, my brother, _former_ King of the North, has residing in his childhood bedroom along with himself.”

In retrospect, Podrick looked more uncomfortable with the idea of being in her chambers than anything she said. He simply nodded on, shifting, eyeing his whereabouts.

“Fair,” he started. “I understand why you would want to keep that to yourself and why you have been more slighted than usual,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “My apologies,” he offered his regrets, in the most Podrick way possible that she laughed.

Her nights were supposed to be easier when Jon returned but as she thought they were not. They were far worse. Her anxiety was bubbling and all she thought about were what happened in the stories of Robb, happening to Jon.

After it had dawned on her, his situation, she wanted to punch him. Pull at his hair, which was noticeably longer, like Arya used to when they were young.

“It is him really. They are awaiting her army and her counselors to arrive. To keep her safe,” she divulged.

“Also fair,” he assured.

“You and I are the only ones that know beside one guard that always stands this solar.”

“Don?” Podrick supplied. _Of course, he would know the guard’s name too._  

“Aye,” Sansa waved in agreement. “No more questions?”

“I assume that something less than desired had to have happened, to arrive here like this,” Podrick quietly spoke. “Is Lady Brienne-”

“They did not see her,” she shook her head, losing eye contact.

“We will just have to wait,” he conceded.

 

 

***

 

 

“What are you doin’?” Jon breathed out.

He had been greeted with what he believed a sight given to him by the gods; Dany surrounded with soft white linens, eyes closed but very much awake, naked, and dripping with water scented by oils.

“Resting,” her voice was melodic and sleepy.

Her arms reached above her head as she let air out between her teeth, moaning as she rolled to her injured side, reaching for the goose feathered pillow Sansa had given to her.

As Jon moved closer, he realized that she was _soaking_ wet, drenching the sheets with water from her thick silver hair which cascaded in waves like a halo around her head and down her back.

“Why?” Jon implored with his next step.

“We would normally be resting at this time,” Dany yawned.

Jon hadn’t the faintest clue if she was being funny or if she was entirely serious.

“Shhh,” she waved him off, her forehead crinkling as her nose scrunched up.

Jon stepped forward again, removing the light cloak he was wearing and smiled, “Aren’t you supposed to be bathing?”

It was what she had informed him that she was doing earlier and what he obviously knew she did by her wet body. It was what she phrased as “lady time” with his sister. 

Jon had given her a grimace to which she had shrugged off.

The thought of leaving Dany to Sansa, well, it was leaving her to a wolf.

The tamer of the ones remaining from what Jon had known, but nonetheless a wolf.

Sansa could rip the Dragon Queen’s throat out if she pleased.

Jon had warned Dany, but his queen only puffed out her chest and reminded him that she was fire made flesh.

_“Blood is blood, Dany,” he quietly uttered. “Wolves protect their own, and according to her, I am her own.”_

_Jon watched Dany’s shoulders fall casually, unintimidated. Truly, Jon didn’t expect Sansa to attack Dany physically._

Sansa was intelligent and appeared soft, she would use what people deemed her weaknesses as a strength.

Blood was blood and fire made flesh was still flesh. Wolves will devour after they’ve shadowed and tested their prey, searching for vulnerability.

Sansa has endurance and was an opportunist at heart.

“I did bathe,” she peeked at his halting figure with one eye open.

Not wanting her to see he was stalking towards her, he paused, kicking off his boots until she closed her eye again.

“I quite like being a secret,” her voice rang, to which he responded with a low hum of agreement. He did not wish to say it out loud, but having her to himself was a luxury he never thought he would be able to have.

“I have been sneaking about your solar all morning,” her chest rose and then fell when she paused. Jon assumed it was one of contemplation and was right.

“Your sister has been disgustingly kind,” she remarked.

His boots were off, and he moved further, with great stealth, towards the bed.

“Has she?”

It was probably an arrogant tone he had for the queen huffed with distaste before adding. “Pampered me and everything." 

“Everything?” Jon raised his brow, standing at the foot of the bed, getting a clear view of her smooth stomach, the fading purple marks on her side, the birth spot at the inner corner of her thigh, the light hair at her mound, which he had only felt when slipping his tongue between her legs, and of course, her round breasts and light brown nipples.

“Interrogating?” Dany offered a loose lift of her lips. “Quite a bit.”

“My apologies,” Jon said half-heartedly. He had warned her all night.

“I can handle it,” she dismissed. “But she is very intimidating,” Dany confessed.

“It’s the hair and eyes, so cerulean and piercing,” she shook her head, eyes closed tight as if she had been envisioning them. “Then she offered me a body oil that smelled of honey,” his lover pouted. “Combed my hair,” she continued before finishing with the dismissive confidence she normally had, “It would have been frightening if I were anyone else.”

Jon rolled his eyes and grabbed one of her ankles.

Her eyes startled open while he rubbed at the joint.

“You are soaking wet,” he stated. “You are getting _everything_ wet.”

Smiling, she attempted some apologies.

“Are you really?” Jon knew she was not, but he thought the question was still worth asking.

“Not sorry enough to move, Your Grace,” she mocked, so he jerked her forward by her ankle so that her front would be closer to him, making her giggle as he flipped her over.

Noticing a wetness that was not water, between her legs, his mouth went dry and his eyes glazed with such lust he never could have imagined.

Slapping the back of her thighs lightly, eliciting a yelp from her, he repeated, “You are soaking wet.”

“Yes,” she husked out as his fingers skimmed up her thigh, rubbed past her slit and up her spine.

“The walls are thin,” she echoed his earlier words to him. It was a warning.

“Yes,” he agreed. “The late Lady Stark loved to know the happenings of her solar.”

Dany craned her neck back towards him with a hardness in her eyes, “We are far and I do not care,” she squirmed as his fingers danced around her center. “If you put anything besides your cock inside of me, Jon Snow, I am screaming.” 

“Such foul language, Your Majesty.”

 

 

***

 

 

When Ser Davos returned he did not look too bad, only tired. The boy that was with him however, had collected a nasty wound on his stomach that would need to be looked at.

Sansa did not say it, but he seemed very familiar, so she would have Arya keep an eye on him. She could not place it, but it was on the tip of her tongue.

She set up rooms for them in the adjacent guest wing but not the ones made for royal visitors for Davos had vehemently denied them, saying that it needed to be prepared for others.

There was also a tall brown skinned man with them. He did not talk much, but when he did, it was heavily accented. He stood stoically dressed in a decent fur and held a spear.

He was an Unsullied soldier, Ser Davos had informed her as they walked through corridors when they had arrived at Winterfell. She noted that and realized she would need to inform Arya that a message from Dragonstone had arrived and Lord Tyrion and company would be coming north, so that this Grey Worm fellow would not be suspicious to her.

Sansa rounded the corner from a talk with a servant about fixing a room for Grey Worm in one of the halls closer to the solar, as he was adamant about being as close to the Queen as possible. Sansa had told the commander that it would not be a decent room, but he did not blink an eye against it.

“Arya!” she shouted, panicked for her sister was nearing the end of the hall, towards Jon’s chamber. She covered it up with a sneer, like she always did when she was calling for her strange sibling. She had put it off as annoyance and stress so many times to the point where Arya just snapped back as she normally did.

“What?!”

“What is it that you are doing?” Sansa spluttered.

“Why do you ask?” Arya turned from the direction of Jon’s old room to Sansa, stepping over Ghost who has taken up permanent residency in the solar much to Sansa’s dismay.

She shrugged at her sister, as if it was a stupid question.

Arya rolled her eyes and pointed at the wolf fondly. “Ghost is back.”

“I see.” She saw him and chunks of fur all over their living space.

Sansa grimaced, motioning for her to follow. “I wanted to speak with you, about, _you know_.”

Sansa figured now would be the best time to bring up the whispers of town she also knew Arya was keen on listening for. “Very well.” It was a stiff nod that Arya gave before lifting her hand and pointed her thumb her, “I have not seen him in a while.”

“I always meant to ask you about Nymeria,” Sansa tossed at her with a low voice, heading for the solar office.

“You remember her name?” Arya scoffed.

“I remember them all,” Sansa stopped abruptly, her sister almost slamming into her as she turned around. “Nymeria. Grey Wind. Summer. Shaggy Dog. Ghost. Lady,” Sansa swallowed the emotion rising in her throat.

“I threw a rock at her. Told her to run,” Arya spoke, devoid of feelings. “Never saw her again until I was making my way back. She was how I knew I was making the right decision to come home...”

Sansa watched her sister lower her head at the confession. “She would not come with me though,” she recalled, her head rising with a sad smile now. “She is a wild thing now.”

“Much like her owner,” Sansa glanced down at her younger sister, placing a hand on her shoulder for some sort of comfort before pressing the door open behind her.

“She has no owner anymore.”

“Much like her dam,” Sansa corrected herself casually while stepping into the space.

Those wolves would always be a part of them. Sansa had felt it the moment she held hers in her arms and that part of her died when Lady did.

“I should have apologized, about Lady. It should have been Nymeria. Lady was the kindest of them all. I should have run to release her too, at least,” Arya confessed, her eyes not nearly as stoic as they normally were now.

Sansa nodded, attempting to clear the sadness from her. “A sweet thing,” Sansa remembered, staring blankly. “A gentle wolf, would you believe?” she shook her head. “Pretty and polite. She would not have lasted. Not as such,” Sansa’s eyes traveled to the floor as she made her way towards her desk. 

“She was killed, but at least she died with a pure soul.”

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys had not meant to pry. Well, she did, but her curiosity was piqued, and Jon tended to be very quiet on the business of Winterfell.

When she addressed his secrecy, he had simply stated that there was nothing of confidentiality, nothing that he wished to keep from her, only that he would prefer to have his time with her separate from responsibility while they could. 

“-Just let me tend to the forge. It needs a bit of cleaning for how we are to be using it soon. If there is anything that is withered, you’d do good to clear it out now.”

“Can you handle the repairs?” Jon’s voice was cautious and authoritative, wary of the responsibility he was handing out.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Daenerys could almost hear the eye roll in the title. _Gendry?_

She knew from Jon that Ser Davos had arrived not long ago. She had sighed in relief as everything had begun to come together.

All she worried for now was her dragon.

In the raven, she had been informed that Rhaegal was still atop a cliff, whining, but there was no mention of Drogon. Daenerys refused to let pain sink in for one of her children was still alive and she could not feel him, but the other could be as well.

“I will be needing an arakh and the spears the Unsullied use. I am not familiar with the weapon and I would be best looking at it and feeling at it to be able to build another from obsidian.”

“You will need to approach Grey Worm. He is off and about.”

As Daenerys pushed the door open, she saw the last movements of Jon’s arm, waving Gendry away.

“Your Majesty,” the man said abruptly, bowing with formality before darting his eyes in a slow panic towards Jon.

“This is Gendry Waters,” Jon introduced with warning on his features. “Stop trying to intimidate him.”

“I am not,” Dany denied, fixing her steely expression into one of passivity.

“But you are,” Jon argued, motioning to her stiffened shoulders, and her defiant chin.

“I am _not_ ,” she retorted, frowning, “Am I?” she turned to the usurper’s son, with an attitude she would realize in retrospect was very much layered with annoyance and scorn. 

“Absolutely,” Gendry uttered out before his lips could stop him.

His eyes casted down quickly as Jon said, “See.” 

“Why is that with most Westerosi men, they either hate women or find them frightening?” Daenerys took this time to unclasp the hands that she instinctively brought together, moving towards the sack that she had placed on the chair near the fireplace when they had first arrived. 

Before Jon could argue, Dany accused him of being alarmed of women. It was an easy remark, so much so that she did not even bother to eye the look of offense she was positive he held. She knew he was afraid of Missandei and said as much.

Gendry snickered, following them back and forth, as Daenerys found what she was searching for.

“She always looks like she’s up to something or that she knows far more than she should- she looks mischievous,” Jon defended himself.

It had been no secret on Dragonstone that Jon was intimidated by Missandei. He could look both Dothraki and Unsullied in the eyes, argue with the Queen and Lord Tyrion, but when it came to Dany’s most trusted advisor and Varys, he eyed the latter with suspicion always, and never disputed with the curly haired girl.

Daenerys rolled her eyes. All men thought women were scheming and deceitful, it was just Jon’s luck that Missandei was indeed astute.

“She is and always does,” Dany waved him off again as his chest puffed and before he started at a point that was of little importance to her at the moment. “And what is it that I am to call you?”

“Gendry is fine, Your Grace,” the smith straightened himself out from the slouch he formally relaxed into out of watching the pair squabble with mirth in his eyes.

“Not Lord Baratheon?”

“Baratheon is not my surname,” Gendry reminded her, adding her title at the end, remembering his manners.

 _He is not used to royal company_ \- but Daenerys probed on with obvious discontentment. “Only the name of your father?”

She heard Jon let out a frustrated sigh as many statements slipped from between Gendry’s teeth from, “It is what I have been told- didn’t know him,” to, “Saw him once. In a parade.”

The words were scrambled, but she could tell that he was frustrated, and it was similar to Jon’s deflation every time someone he deemed important uttered of his illegitimacy.

The three of them stood in an uncomfortable silence as she allowed the guilt of her probing to shower her. Daenerys had repeatedly told herself it did not matter who he was, but she knew that a man would always have higher claim, even a bastard.

She had even spoke that to Jon when they had argued about it again.

He had told her that it was not him that killed Ramsay Bolton, that it was not him that won the battle of the bastards nor was it his idea to take back his home, but Sansa’s.

Daenerys had inquired as to why Lady Stark was not Queen of Winterfell instead and he shrugged. She had listed off all of his accomplishments and deduced that perhaps it was the war they were to enter and his experience with the white walkers but still, he could have led the army, not the people.

 _Westerosi would always prefer a man to a woman,_ for Lady Stark was more than capable.

“You do fine work,” Daenerys stepped towards him, unraveling the bundle of knives he had left them with at the beginning of hers and Jon’s journey. “Saved my life,” she continued but stopped when he flinched at their proximity.

She chuckled, “I see women worry you too.”

Gendry frowned.

“Or is it just me?”

Though it was a question she did not intend to get a reply for, he answered. “No, but you are up there with some of the most terrifying.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrow, shifting a look at Jon as Gendry did not enlighten on his past much, but he just shrugged, no longer bothering with them.

“Haven’t had many great experiences with women, Your Grace,” he quickly clarified when her curiosity did not yield. “Either they try to kill me, or the ones that actually care for me, well, I must admit, I sodded that up.”

“As most men do,” Daenerys nodded. “Nice of you to admit that as many men are not inclined to admit their wrongdoings.”

“Not all the time,” she heard Jon interject from somewhere behind her and rolled her eyes once more. “Every time?” she called back, smiling when she heard him curse her. 

Daenerys lifted the blades from her palms and held them up to the smith. A peace offering, she settled on. “I believe these are yours.”

Gendry rolled the cloth back over them, covering them and pushing the bundle back towards her with a slight nod, “Keep them, Your Grace.”

 

 

+

 

 

Jon had left with Gendry to assess the costs of repairs for the forge and it was late when he returned to the room to a half-asleep queen.

Daenerys had grown tired of waiting for him and plopped herself into the newly appointed copper tub that she had filled herself with steaming hot water and rich smelling oils.

The maneuvering around the castle that Jon did so effortlessly was not lost to her. She hadn’t the faintest clue as to how he did such for every time she stepped out of the room, she was hurried by the man named Ser Podrick into Lady Sansa’s chambers or office.

People were moving about at a higher frequency, the squire had murmured to her.

She had been terrified when Ser Payne grabbed her the first time, reaching for the nearest candelabra, until he stuttered out that he was a friend of her Lord Hand’s and then of the Lady Stark’s.

Tyrion always held the most peculiar company.

Daenerys had brightened as the man recalled his time with her Hand, smiling in encouragement for his tales were far from dull, unalike the four stone walls of Jon’s bedroom.

However, the squire had also warned her to stay put for a while.

She had learned that there was a lot of movement nowadays because the ships from Dragonstone would be docking soon. Which was also why she had been waiting purposefully naked on the King in the North’s bed so that after she was through with him, they would bathe.

That was until night fell and she gave up, deciding on a soothing bath for herself.

It had been so long since she had one, a proper one without Jon’s sister breathing down her neck which is what she assumed Sansa Stark’s best form of interrogation to be.

She fell asleep knowing that the girl believed that she, the immoral and sinful Targaryen queen, corrupted Jon Snow’s innocence. _Whatever was left of it anyway_ , and awoke some time later to the violent sounds of the door unlocking.

_Jon._

Her eyes traveled to his rushing form as he hastily pulled off his dark cloak.

He did not notice her at first, or the warm glow of the room from the candles she had lit, but when he did, he froze, his eyes scanning her face.

His dark irises looked tired, but relieved as he smiled.

He went to open his mouth but it quickly shut as she sat up, her white hair that she had pulled up into a loose knot, falling into the oil infused water. His face turned from relief, to contented, to smoldering.

Leaning back, “You are late,” she scolded, sinking into lukewarm water with her eyes closed.

“Are you timing me now, your grace?”

She wanted to deny such, but she was. She had been.

Being locked inside of a small room for hours on end with him was a prize, but when left alone  and with so little to entertain herself with, it seemed like she was being punished.

Years ago, such free time would have been a luxury but with no immediate responsibilities besides to memorize the northern lords and parts of the lands, it felt like pulling teeth.

She wanted her dragons, she wanted Missandei and most of all, she just wanted Jon Snow to come back. It all felt so immaterial and paltry. 

So when she did not respond to his stupid but perceptive question, he snorted and dropped something to the floor before starting at his garments.

She listened to him remove his clothes; the whooshing of his cloak, the clanging of his sword belt, the thump of his boots.

Anticipation crawled her spine as she tried to figure out what he was to do next since she hardly believed that he was going to let her sit in a tub naked, annoyed and alone.

Though she did not expect it, he did indeed not come to her first.

Frowning, she listened to his steps for he was stirring around a lot. Near her, then further away and then back closer to her.

He was close and there was no longer any movement or noise.

Opening one eye, she jumped at his proximity. She was met with his dark eyes and a half smile. “You’re pruned,” he remarked, eyeing her grip on the tub edge as he sat next to her hand, silently asking her how long she had been in there with a quirk of his eyebrow.

He had nothing but a loose tunic on, his breeches, and a washing cloth between his finger which he placed on his lap to roll up his sleeves.

Leaning forward again, Dany insisted on helping him.

He frowned but she rolled to her knees, water sloshing around, her breasts exposed and went for the hemline. _Subtly_. She smiled to herself as she pulled the garment off of him, not at all rolling the sleeves up, tossing it in another direction.

She sat back, lips curving sweetly, waiting for him to stop shaking his head at her.

Despite his scars, and his bandaged patch on his side, he had a nice form again.

He sat straighter, his stomach was still toned in all the right areas, his skin clean, smooth and freckled too.

The beard that had grown on the road had been trimmed, but his hair, she forbade him from taking a knife to it.

Jon Snow was a comely sight; a strong jaw that she skimmed her hands over, rosy cheeks that always tinted when she said something cheeky and a hard body that her hands trailed as often as time would allow. 

She had been mostly robbed of seeing him fully- being in the dark when they laid together.

The stars had certainly offered a nice mood, but the glow of candles illuminated every small brown spot on his stomach and every involuntary flex of his upper arms.

He was far more attractive than he ought to be.

Shifting so he need not add unnecessary pressure to his recovering wound, Jon drew his cloth into the water, swirling it around before gently dragging it up her lower stomach.

His eyes weren’t on hers, but on the rising and falling of her chest, and switched between that and a concentrated gaze while he rubbed her down.

Dany swallowed at his furrowed brow, wondering if he was in pain or very focused on his delicate ministrations.

“How is that?”

His eyes finally glanced to hers, following them to his bandages with confusion.

“Oh,” he mumbled absently. “Healing up pretty nicely. You did well, I am told,” he nodded. “Another thing you are good at.”

She moaned, though she wasn’t sure if it was at his praise or when his fingers brushed past her nipple.

Dany heard him swallow as she pushed forward looking for the same pressure again.

Jon did go see the Maester discretely, per Sansa’s request.

It had been a large argument between the siblings for his sister did not believe he had been taking good care of himself. Jon had mocked that there was finally something that Daenerys and Lady Stark agreed on.

The wound was fairly bad when he finally got a look at it. It was deep enough to where the Maester mumbled that he might’ve bled out had it not been treated in time and that a part of his skin had been cut off due to an infection caused by an ambiguous poison that should have killed him.

Small residue of the infection still lurked in the area but nothing the healer could not slice away and smooth herbs over. 

Jon started remembering how bad it had been. He had added pressure and wrapped the wound while she had been maneuvering the bodies but did not think much of it at the time as his adrenaline was running. It was not until halfway to the next town that his body had started to thrum with pain before he lost most of his consciousness.

“How was your day out and about?” Dany inquired, her breath hitching as she felt the cloth drop from his palms, sinking to the bottom of the large basin. It was almost immediate when both his hands came upon her body again, one at her throat and another lathered with hard soap at her waist.

“Far better now,” he grunted, leaning down to pull her forward by the back of her neck. Her eyes shot open to meet his smoky ones, before his lips touched to hers. His thumb made delicate strokes across her chin as his mouth caught her upper lip, and then bit, making her gasp.

She squirmed while Jon’s tongue skimmed along her bottom lip before moving in for the access she had given him the moment his lips touched hers. While pressure began to build in her belly, their mouths moved together in a tantalizing cohesiveness until she let out a frustrated growl for all of the hours she was by herself, wanting him.

He moved to the side of her jaw, tracing harsh circles at the base of her throat, sucking and biting while she shifted as heat crawled down her spine.

He was so warm, even in the cold north, he was warm.

Her body ached as his thumb continued to stroke her jawline while his other hand skimmed down to her ass to pull her to her knees.

Daenerys had tried exceptionally hard to keep her hair mostly dry, but this attempt had failed, as it now hung damply to her waist, wetting him profusely. He didn’t mind.

Jon pulled the white tresses forward, getting up on his feet as he pulled her from the water with a hard grip on her arse.

Between the friction he was creating and the splashes of water hitting them, Dany let out a loud whine.

The water went straight to his trousers, accentuating the hard bulge she could feel and knew that the wetness was not a problem that even entered his mind.

It was an effortless movement on his part, even with a wound.

She did not wrap her legs around his torso out of concern, so he gripped her thighs to keep them steady, though she doubted he would have minded the pain either.

They had started out rough, with harsh grabs but somewhere in between, their tight grips became light strokes and soft caresses as Jon pushed firmly into her.

His hips had kept a steady rhythm, grinding into her core while his tongue traced patters along her neck. She had moaned with each thrust, meeting him, eyes closed tight relishing in the pleasure, almost scared to open them and see the intensity she knew was there.

His kisses had seared liquid hot emotion into her skin.

It made no sense in her mind how his touch scorched her-, like he was burning himself into her.

 _Love_.

The idea had crossed her mind once or twice but that notion had no place in her reality. 

It was dangerous and real, which is why she squeezed her eyes shut and refused to stare into Jon’s molten gaze.

So, she clenched her jaw, stifling the whimper that was crawling its way out of her and buried the thoughts and only reciprocated by pulling closer, deeper, scratching his back so hard that next time his healer tended to him, he would ask about these scars instead.

When Dany came to her release, it wasn’t because of Jon’s movements this time, but _his_ noises of pleasure.

It was not a grunt-, but some guttural groan or moan from when he spilled into her that made her call out his name like he was her foreign god to the north. 

She did not let him disentangle from her for some time, not that he had protested, laying his head on her breasts as her fingers threaded through his hair until he fell fast asleep.

It did not take the queen long to follow, both of them ignoring that this time they laid together, it was profoundly different.

They knew each other, not just how to please one another, but how to be together and in Dany’s dreams, all she saw were dark curls blowing in the snowy wind and eyes buried with emotion.

 

 

**###############**

 

 

Days had passed out before the next time they had laid together.

They had barely looked at each other and busied themselves with dutiful work.

Their time together was coming to a close and she had not been prepared for the challenge to their trust and the resurgence of the past that would be unintentionally thrown at her. 

It had started with a giggle and a scoot backward.

She had rolled her body against him until she felt him stir and begin thicken. 

His hands moved along the curves of her stomach, rough and warm, treading their way to her hips, stilling her playful efforts. Dany peeked around to examine Jon’s willingness and found a lazy and sleepy but devious look, so wildly curious, that it excited her.

“Are you never satisfied?” he questioned for what Dany deemed the tenth dozenth time.

His voice was full of exhaustion for it was just barely morning. He would disappear soon, so while she could nod her head, she shook it, doe eyed, though he couldn’t see her.

Air filtered through his teeth and onto the back of her neck, in a slow stream of warmth, goose flesh erupting across her skin.

Dany closed her eyes, relishing in the feel of desire as her belly filled with warmth.

She had waited for him to flip her on to her back or slide on top of her, but he only shifted to remove his breeches and lifted her leg to thrust into her. It was a new position with him, not to her, but with him. She let out a sigh of contentment at his languid, sleepy pace, his hot mouth sucking at her throat and his palms gripping at her waist.

Dany’s eyes fluttered as he slid in and out of her, her wetness coating the length of him. His hands flattened against her abdomen, aiding the pressure that was building, feeding the coiling that was beginning. 

But then she was immediately taken off guard.

He rolled her flat on her front.

Not at all a new position for Daenerys. She froze.

She wanted to scream for him to stop, but her throat ran dry and no words left her mouth. The panic was so consuming it nearly blinded her. Dread assaulted her senses as one of his hands pressed into her back while the other continued to caress her side. His hips moved fluidly, driving him deeper inside her and stroking home. It could have been lovely, so lovely, except it wasn’t.

Her throat began to tighten.

In that moment Jon Snow was no longer Jon Snow. He was a threat.

 

“Daenerys.”

She was motionless, gripping the sheets, replaying her horrifying nights with Drogo and the painful mornings afterward, again and again, wondering how something that was going so well could suddenly drive her into such a state.

“Dany,” Jon pulled out, noticing her unresponsiveness. “Fuck, did I hurt you?” he asked, sitting her upwards.

Daenerys shook her head, keeping her back towards him, not allowing him to see the water forming in her eyes. They have been together many times and the tickle of overexertion was welcome, but the horror she felt in their position was not.

Terror gripped her and though logically she knew it was neither his nor her fault, she blamed herself.

There were so many things she wished for at that moment; for the past to stay in the past, for the look of horror on Jon’s face to disappear, for herself to stop crying, and for the itch to find something to defend herself with to leave.

Dany wanted to bash her head against anything to rid herself of the images of blood staining her thighs and to stop her self-induced sting of overstimulation trailing its way down her center in sharp waves.

In her mind, Jon Snow was good, worthy of trust, and… what she was doing was futile-, so, the spiral followed with ease.

“Daenerys,” Jon breathed out, aware now where earlier he wasn’t. “I did not kno-” She shook her head to cut him off, not wanting him to apologize but accepting it anyway.

 _How would he know?_ They had been fucking like rabbits since being on the road, no matter how much they probably should have waited or found an inn. Both of them had hardly cared where they were or how long they’d been on the road when they were intertwined.

_How could he have known?_

“My apologies,” Dany was able to get out.

“Why are you- No. I-” Jon shook his head, moving towards her, wondering if he could hug or touch her, but not sure it would be helpful at that moment.

Time passed achingly slow before Dany finally spoke. Quietly, she said, “I don’t wish to be afraid of doing this.”

“I… I-” she stuttered, hating herself for being at a loss for words.

“Something happened to you. In the past…” It wasn’t quite a question and not entirely meant for the queen to answer, but rather; a quiet statement. Jon had always been rather blunt and tactless, but it was something she appreciated right now.

Her northerner softly offered her a sheet for her body, careful not to lay a hand on her.

She nodded, “Drogo- my first husband… That is the way he took me, every night for many moons.”

“Do not utter any apologies, you could not have known,” she added quickly, knowing it was to come.

Jon murmured that he did not have anything but apologies for her, and that if she needed anything, he would oblige, even if it was for him to leave.

He _understood_ but she pleaded with him through her eyes to stay and he did without hesitation.

Dany’s head ended up on his lap after time passed, with him sleepily raking his hands through her hair. Dawn had come and went and she was positive Jon had somewhere to be, but he simply stayed, curling her hair around his fingers, whispering about how the snow would soon fall again because the sky was turning grey.

Dany thought it to be an ugly grey but Jon swore there was something beautiful about storms.

They watched a light snow fall by the evening from the small window and he told her that the weather may become so frigid that it begins to warm, and that the saddest thing would be if the freshly fallen white flakes turned to rain.

It was nonsensical conversations that filled the room but Jon knew his voice was a low rasp, winding its way around her like a thick smoky blanket when her eyes drifted close.

Daenerys didn’t need to tell Jon stay. He wouldn’t allow the words to come from her mouth. He would remain until she wanted him to leave, or, Dany thought, until his sister came and he could no longer shirk his duties for the day.

But Jon did have responsibilities and made no attempts at acknowledging them, letting both her and Lady Stark know that he was where he was needed most at the moment.

A tray of food had been delivered as well, and Jon had spoken through the door to someone she did not recognize, and then both of them had cleaned up, but still, they ended back up in the same position; her head on his lap. Until the depth of night came.                     

Her eyes ceased to be wet and the only red that was visible was no longer from her eyes, but from the faint hand print on her behind and the scratches on his back.

“I wish to try again,” she announced softly.

He released his hold on her, slowly pushing to the furthest edge of the bed, giving both of them space. 

Jon’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“I do not think that is a good idea, Daenerys,” Jon rubbed his forehead, holding the edge of a fur close to his stomach. “Perhaps, we should take it easy again.”

“No,” she spoke vehemently.

“I don’t want you to look at me with disgust.”

While Dany winced at his words, knowing at multiple points of the morning she glanced at him with fear, she was adamant that they try again. 

He was not Drogo, which was apparent after his insistence at talking about boundaries in which he should not cross, _ever_. And earlier he had retrieved a damp cloth, which he used to wipe fallen tears and the rest of her body.

Drogo had not even understood her tears.

 _No, he is not Drogo_.

She wanted to try it again. She had, later, “loved” her husband and forgiven him, she could do _this_.

Dany covered his mouth with hers before moving to turn back to her stomach.

Jon stopped her, taking a somber breath. He frowned, pulling her face back to his and laying her body on the bed.

“I would greatly appreciate it if you could do this with me, unless you really don’t want to,” Dany hesitated, biting her lip as he settled between her legs observing every expression that passed her face. “It is a lot to ask and I won’t force you.”

She expected his lips to touch hers again with concern and sadness before turning away. Instead, he simply rested his forehead against hers, eyes glistening with trepidation, before his lips covered hers.

Dany supposed that he did not want this very much by the way his fingers hesitantly caressed down her sides, but Jon was actually scared.

He did not want to hurt her-, grab her too hard and become too dominating, whereas Drogo did not care and was quick to press his palms into her arse and grunt his way to a release unless she took control.

Jon was shaking with apprehension.

“Just try to feel _me_ ,” he mumbled against her skin, lips moving down her throat, past her breasts. “Don’t think, just feel _me_ ,” his palms gripped her legs and parted them. “ _My_ hands,” he stroked her inner thigh. “ _My_ mouth.” And it came down on her center, perfectly, and in complete sync with his breathing. He bent and curled his tongue in the way he knew she liked, and then he turned her onto her stomach and before Dany had time to still and think, his mouth and tongue continued their motions.

Squirming at the sensations, he tilted her arse up, making her arch her back. His tongue was still hot in her, his hands allowing him to plunge deeper. Instead of taking his cock out and forcing it in her, he told her that she was his favorite thing to eat and that she tasted of the sweetest honey. He promised her that although he was not _entirely_ mad, he was almost certain that she was some form of goddess.

Dany was sure she might come. The tightening in her belly almost snapped when Jon’s tongue slid up from the pearl at the apex of her cunt, faintly grazing her rim. A gasp escaped her, and Jon halted.

His voice was low when he asked, “Did you like that?’

Daenerys responded by backing up further.

They had both started off unsteady and terrified, however, the chuckle that came from Jon at her growing keenness calmed her immensely and him, too, apparently, for she could feel his length thickening once more. 

Enthusiasm spread with the feeling of Jon panting behind her. His tongue flicked every which way, and his fingers rubbed her until her legs began to quiver. It was then he entered her again from behind.

Dany stilled, waiting for him to ram into her, pull her hair, grab at her throat, grab her arms and slam into her until she turned red. _But he didn’t._

“Trust me,” Jon spoke in her ear as his hand found her nub again. It wasn’t some miraculous phrase that would push her over the edge, and everything would be stars in the night sky, but it was a reminder. _A promise_.

He pulled her into a sitting position, she supposed so that she could take some control again for comfort and she enjoyed the sound he let out from the light bounce she made from the adjustment in their position. She did it again, and again and ground into him for good measure, breathing harder at the friction. He met her movement and quickly eased her back on to her knees in a fast move that might have startled her if he didn’t hit something within her that made her collapse onto her stomach.

Dany choked out expletives while he rutted into her, every jerk of his hips slapping against her making her toes to curl.

Jon drilled into her, stroking her hair back, pushing the sweaty tendrils from her face as the fire in her belly thrummed. His name fell from her lips along with a command of him to go deeper, clutch her, something to satisfy the ache, and he did.

It was a solid thrust that pushed her over, a cacophony of obscenities escaping her as Jon spilled into her.

Her fingers gripped the sheets as Jon’s jerky movement continued in time with her clenching muscles, groaning as every aftershock broke through her.

Daenerys’ mind was hazy.

Her traumatizing nights with Drogo had long drifted away from her thoughts. Perhaps they would return in the morning as the dull throb she was sure would settle in her groin appeared, _or maybe they would be fine._  

All she concerned herself with for the time being was Jon Snow’s palm resting over hers as he settled beside her… Under her-…  After she reached for his chest.

She had learned to love Drogo for her survival. But trust with Jon, he had said it was a necessity, but it wasn’t, not for her. It was something earned over time. It was a promise.

 

 

****

 

 

Much to Bran’s dismay, Arya had found him by the heart tree, palm on the trunk, eyes wide and white. His face was blank and pink because of the cold.

Out of her, Sansa, and Bran, the two youngest Starks fared the best together. It was very much to Arya’s insistence though. She would not let the boy’s current state disturb her as she suspected it did Sansa.

It was uncomfortable for Arya, not being able to chase Bran down or communicate with simplicity but she made do. The more frustrated Bran grew with her attempts, disrupting him from his “sight,” the closer to her little brother she was.

Magic, the unknown, it was not something unheard of or uncommon for the girl therefore the vision and tone of her brother did not frighten her. It annoyed her, as she irked him.

“Sansa has been acting strange,” Arya started towards her brother, minding her step with the melting ice in the woods.

The castle had been cleared by the servants, but the woods were untouched. She was not even sure who brought Bran out there.

When it ceased snowing and the ice cleared, Arya and Sansa would ordinarily stroll with Bran at his insistence, which Arya called whining. 

Bran was unrelenting in his quest to go to the sacred spot, going on about visions. Arya cared, but not too much as his sight was not reliable enough for her.

“She put a tub in a few rooms across the castle, all of the guest wings and one in Jon’s old bedroom.” 

Not that Sansa had not always been strange to her sister but her compulsivity with cleanliness and her rigid appearance was unusual.

Arya comprehended their change but could not fathom her sister’s altered nature. Sansa had gone from a soft and delicate albeit whiny older sister, wearing periwinkle, silver and bronze to stoic and ascetic- wearing all black, buckled up and buttoned down.

Questioning her had been difficult.

Arya had queried as to why her sister wore a chain around her neck and had such sharp jewelry adorning her throat when she first returned home, only to be met with a shrug and a prickly silence.

As the weeks went by, her strolls into towns to hear the whispers of the north informed her the castle’s most painful past that Sansa had not uttered to her. By then she had put two and two together and asked her sister about what had happened to Ramsay Bolton.

 _“Jon?”_ Arya had probed. Did their brother kill the sadist?

Sansa had shaken her head slowly and dismissed herself without another word.

Her sister had been correct. Arya did not believe _she_ would have survived that. 

“Sansa is making the room suitable for Jon,” Bran divulged.

Arya rolled her eyes, “He is not staying there.”

She grabbed the handles of Bran’s chair and started walking backwards so that he would not go flying if she pushed him forward first. “It’s the smallest. He is King.”

The title was still funny on Arya’s tongue, but she would not confess such.

“He _is_ ,” Bran agreed. “But he likes that room,” Bran said without a tremble in his voice despite Arya’s violent tugs down the awful terrain.

“Do you know what is going on yet?” She turned the chair to face forward and started moving towards the castle.

“Right now? Or then? Or in the future?” Bran drawled out, bored and exasperated at his sister for taking him away from the tree. 

She stopped the chair and kicked him. “I cannot feel that,” he snorted.

“My apologies,” Arya made a face before folding her hands around her chest as the sound of carts passed through. “I have been hearing carriages all morning,” she lifted a finger, swirling it in a circle as she whispered.

“The Queen’s people. Northern Lords.”

“What? Now? Why?” Sansa had not mentioned that to her.

“Because war is coming.”

Arya unfolded her hands and rubbed her forehead, feeling her patience cackle vulgarities in her ears.

“You do not already know?” Bran shifted his upper body forward, eyes hard and callous.

“What do I not already know? I have been a bit busy,” she snapped at her brother.

Arya was more than frustrated in the castle, there was a lot of movement that she was adamant on staying aware of, _but Sansa-_

“Ser Davos Seaworth got here some time ago with an Unsullied soldier and a new blacksmith, I believe, our sister said,” Arya shook her head, rattling off a list of events she also repeated to herself, so she would not forget.

“I have been trying to find him, so I know his face, but he moves around too often doing repair work for me to keep track and do Sansa’s bidding,” she motions toward one of the exits of the castle, moving behind him again, done with seeing nothing behind his irises. “I do not get why she has a squire and all these men but no one else can check Winter Town for her to see what needs restoring-”

“Because she does not trust anyone else,” Bran leaned back into the seat.

“Should she?” Arya prodded.

“Do you?” 

“Should I?” Arya stopped the chair, waiting for his answer.

“It is quite challenging, currently, for I do not believe trusting people who have no close ties with Targaryens and Starks is wise.”

Continuing towards the bailey, Arya noticed an unusual amount of guards outside the Great Hall.

“Then I don’t understand why Sansa insists upon holding councils and not telling me,” the youngest stark girl gritted out harshly.

“These times have been demanding on her,” Bran excused.

“Maybe if she asked for help-” 

“She has. She is. From both of us,” her brother reminded her. “Though you are doing more for her than I.”

“Why are you more difficult with her than me?” Arya hunched over the chair to speak more privately as they were entering a space with more people, people she did not like.

“I am not,” Bran paused before finishing, “You just relent… _less_.”

Though Arya was pushing towards the Great Hall, she still absentmindedly asked her brother if he wanted to go to the meeting.

“Yes, I do, actually,” he rolled his eyes as they approached eight guards in front of the structure. 

“Princess?”

They addressed her first and by a title she was disgusted with. “Princess? Why are you-” 

“Arya, if you are to insist on dragging me from the heart tree, I do request to not dawdle and argue with this man,” Bran cut her off, and if she could she would have shoved him again, instead she just looked disdainfully towards the guards before pressing forward.

“What is going on?” she lowered herself back to Bran’s ear, whispering furiously. “I should ram everyone over with you.”

“Must not,” he turned sharply towards his sister, when they came to a stop because big men blocked their access to the isle.

“Excuse me,” in what she wished was a polite voice but knew was not when Bran jutted his chin higher. “What in seven hells is the problem,” she pushed the chair forward, uncaring that the man briefly glanced at her with irritation. He fixed himself properly when he noticed who they were.

Moving past him, Bran had asked for their pardon until they broke through to the front of the crowd, halting their progress when Arya finally got a good look ahead.

“Jon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I really enjoy writing Bran lmfao and Gendry!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed because I am SCARED. Whelp, let me know your favorite part in the comments!
> 
> The next chapter should be sent to Iane tomorrow so pray for her!
> 
> Disclaimer: the story is a fill-in-the-gaps sort of story which is why it's so damn long. It's not necessarily what I think will happen or what should happen, just things I'd think would be nice to read or good in developing a healthy non co-dependent type of relationship, going towards an ideal world lololsss
> 
> As it is in the tags, they are not perfect and have their last relationships as foundations to build upon... and the same goes for the world (building a new one from the fucked up old one). 
> 
> Ya girl is going to destroy that trololol
> 
> But yeah, leave me a comment and enjoy that smut (also for those few of you on tumblr, does anyone know who wrote or where that post about Jon eating ass went? because I need that... for a friend... research purposes) because wars are rough and as Jon stated, we are home!
> 
> ALSO you guys are never too persistent, I enjoy getting comments telling me to hurry tf up! it makes me write faster! So yeah just write "Angel ur a bum," I promise i wont be offended!
> 
>  
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER:
> 
> “King Jon,” Arya mocked.
> 
> “I am not fighin’ you,” he dismissed with a nervous breath.
> 
> “Are you scared to fight a girl?”
> 
> She heard the Queen giggle.
> 
> “No-”
> 
> “Are you scared that I’ll beat you?” Arya teased.
> 
> “You won’t.”
> 
> “Are you sparing me embarrassment?” 
> 
> Arya looked like the female version of the King; hard eyes, dark messy curls framing her face, muscled, broad shouldered but slenderly built, with dark and heavy emotion gracing her features.
> 
> “Don’t answer that,” Tormund warned Jon.


	10. Foreigners’ God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “King Jon,” she mocked.
> 
> “I am not fightin’ you,” he dismissed with a nervous breath.
> 
> “Are you scared of fighting a girl?”
> 
> Arya heard the queen stifle a giggle.
> 
> “No-”
> 
> “Are you scared that I’ll beat you?” Arya teased.
> 
> “You won’t.”
> 
> “Are you sparing me embarrassment?” 
> 
> She looked like the female version of Jon; hard eyes, dark, messy curls framing her face, muscled, broad-shouldered but slenderly built, with dark and heavy emotion gracing her features.
> 
> “Don’t answer that,” Tormund shot out towards her brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL SORRY! Here is the Jon/Arya reunion like 50 times over y'all have been patient for <3
> 
> Thank you Iane again for your tolerance, and holding my hand through this story... again. If there are mistakes, they are mine, bear with ya girl. Writing is hard lmfaoooo

**Part III** :  _death before dishonor – the calm before the storm._  

 

_**Previously on "Chapter 4 - The End Is Near"** _

 

> “Yes, but I’m afraid it’s too late. Winter is here, Sam.” Jon’s face embodied his tone of gravity. “The Snow is beginning to fall heavily at Winterfell and-,” Jon shook his head.
> 
> “And?”
> 
> Jon contemplated telling Sam about his dreams. It was not like he had anything to lose. He just dreaded the idea of Sam not believing him.
> 
> He pulled a cushion in front of Sam, next to the small table. He rubbed his head and took a breath. “My brother and I, we have been having these dreams.” Jon squinted his eyes attempting to deduce his mate’s expression. Sam gave nothing but curiosity away.
> 
> Jon leaned over slightly, shoving some things about on the table until he found the piece of parchment he was looking for. Holding it up while diverting his eyes and rubbing his forehead lines, he asked, “How do you kill a Wight dragon?”
> 
> His voice was low and grave, only holding a hint of exasperation. Bran had sent him a raven that contained the oddest of messages along with his sister’s; listed animals and great creatures no man had seen in hundreds of years, some people thought to be myth. It had not been met with much consideration until recently.
> 
> He looked to Sam, whose face held a disbelieving look that gradually faded as he realized that Jon was not kidding around. “Jon-,
> 
> Sam struggled with articulating a sentence which made Jon deflate even more. The last times he had been with Sam, Sam was good with words, books, feelings, decisions. Everything he was not and he could not seem to get a decent sentence out. “How?
> 
> “Hers, it fell a bit past Eastwatch.” Sam’s eyes furrowed. Jon then took the time to explain the mission and how everything went horribly wrong. And how she came. And them how he almost died and Benjen. He also tried telling his friend about his siblings, how different the two youngest were, though he thought Sansa to be dramatic and unrelentingly strict, his and Bran’s dreams, they were similar. At this point, Jon could not really dismiss fable or folklore as nonsense. What he was saying was nonsense.
> 
> It could not possibly be a coincidence that they were both dreaming of an army that contained anything, everything dead beyond the wall.
> 
> “Do not say anything though. I don’t know if such a thing could be entirely true. There is no word from The Wall,” Jon rushed out. “All I know is that Winter is Here. I want to be prepared.”
> 
> Sam nodded before explaining the incompetence of the Citadel. Jon winced at the number of scrolls and books Sam said he “borrowed,” and grimaced at the prospect of him returning them back to the institution. “We can handle this, Jon.”
> 
> Sam’s voice was strong. Then again, Jon supposed he had to be. The man had a child and partner to take care of. The world ending was not something Sam undoubtedly wanted to consider.
> 
> “He took it down so easily, Sam. He could take another and resurrect it-,”
> 
> “Jon,” Sam hushed him. “She is coming with us?”
> 
> “Aye,” Jon said softly.
> 
> “Even if we do not get the ceasefire.”
> 
> “Aye.” Jon didn’t even bother to look up at the surprise on Sam’s face. His soft tone of disbelief said it all.
> 
> “We will figure it out. No one is alone in this.” Jon felt Sam’s hands come down on his shoulder reassuringly.
> 
>  
> 
>  

_**Previous chapter...** _

 

> Much to Bran’s dismay, Arya had found him by the heart tree, palm on the trunk, eyes wide and white. His face was blank and pink because of the cold.
> 
> Out of her, Sansa, and Bran, the two youngest Starks fared the best together. It was very much to Arya’s insistence though. She would not let the boy’s current state disturb her as she suspected it did Sansa.
> 
> It was uncomfortable for Arya, not being able to chase Bran down or communicate with simplicity but she made do. The more frustrated Bran grew with her attempts, disrupting him from his “sight,” the closer to her little brother she was.
> 
> Magic, the unknown, it was not something unheard of or uncommon for the girl therefore the vision and tone of her brother did not frighten her. It annoyed her, as she irked him.
> 
> “Sansa has been acting strange,” Arya started towards her brother, minding her step with the melting ice in the woods.
> 
> The castle had been cleared by the servants, but the woods were untouched. She was not even sure who brought Bran out there.
> 
> When it ceased snowing and the ice cleared, Arya and Sansa would ordinarily stroll with Bran at his insistence, which Arya called whining. 
> 
> Bran was unrelenting in his quest to go to the sacred spot, going on about visions. Arya cared, but not too much as his sight was not reliable enough for her.
> 
> “She put a tub in a few rooms across the castle, all of the guest wings and one in Jon’s old bedroom.” 
> 
> Not that Sansa had not always been strange to her sister but her compulsivity with cleanliness and her rigid appearance was unusual.
> 
> Arya comprehended their change but could not fathom her sister’s altered nature. Sansa had gone from a soft and delicate albeit whiny older sister, wearing periwinkle, silver and bronze to stoic and ascetic- wearing all black, buckled up and buttoned down.
> 
> Questioning her had been difficult.
> 
> Arya had queried as to why her sister wore a chain around her neck and had such sharp jewelry adorning her throat when she first returned home, only to be met with a shrug and a prickly silence.
> 
> As the weeks went by, her strolls into towns to hear the whispers of the north informed her the castle’s most painful past that Sansa had not uttered to her. By then she had put two and two together and asked her sister about what had happened to Ramsay Bolton.
> 
> _“Jon?”_ Arya had probed. Did their brother kill the sadist?
> 
> Sansa had shaken her head slowly and dismissed herself without another word.
> 
> Her sister had been correct. Arya did not believe  _she_  would have survived that. 
> 
> “Sansa is making the room suitable for Jon,” Bran divulged.
> 
> Arya rolled her eyes, “He is not staying there.”
> 
> She grabbed the handles of Bran’s chair and started walking backwards so that he would not go flying if she pushed him forward first. “It’s the smallest. He is King.”
> 
> The title was still funny on Arya’s tongue, but she would not confess such.
> 
> “He  _is_ ,” Bran agreed. “But he likes that room,” Bran said without a tremble in his voice despite Arya’s violent tugs down the awful terrain.
> 
> “Do you know what is going on yet?” She turned the chair to face forward and started moving towards the castle.
> 
> “Right now? Or then? Or in the future?” Bran drawled out, bored and exasperated at his sister for taking him away from the tree. 
> 
> She stopped the chair and kicked him. “I cannot feel that,” he snorted.
> 
> “My apologies,” Arya made a face before folding her hands around her chest as the sound of carts passed through. “I have been hearing carriages all morning,” she lifted a finger, swirling it in a circle as she whispered.
> 
> “The Queen’s people. Northern Lords.”
> 
> “What? Now? Why?” Sansa had not mentioned that to her.
> 
> “Because war is coming.”
> 
> Arya unfolded her hands and rubbed her forehead, feeling her patience cackle vulgarities in her ears.
> 
> “You do not already know?” Bran shifted his upper body forward, eyes hard and callous.
> 
> “What do I not already know? I have been a bit busy,” she snapped at her brother.
> 
> Arya was more than frustrated in the castle, there was a lot of movement that she was adamant on staying aware of,  _but Sansa-_
> 
> “Ser Davos Seaworth got here some time ago with an Unsullied soldier and a new blacksmith, I believe, our sister said,” Arya shook her head, rattling off a list of events she also repeated to herself, so she would not forget.
> 
> “I have been trying to find him, so I know his face, but he moves around too often doing repair work for me to keep track and do Sansa’s bidding,” she motions toward one of the exits of the castle, moving behind him again, done with seeing nothing behind his irises. “I do not get why she has a squire and all these men but no one else can check Winter Town for her to see what needs restoring-”
> 
> “Because she does not trust anyone else,” Bran leaned back into the seat.
> 
> “Should she?” Arya prodded.
> 
> “Do you?” 
> 
> “Should I?” Arya stopped the chair, waiting for his answer.
> 
> “It is quite challenging, currently, for I do not believe trusting people who have no close ties with Targaryens and Starks is wise.”
> 
> Continuing towards the bailey, Arya noticed an unusual amount of guards outside the Great Hall.
> 
> “Then I don’t understand why Sansa insists upon holding councils and not telling me,” the youngest stark girl gritted out harshly.
> 
> “These times have been demanding on her,” Bran excused.
> 
> “Maybe if she asked for help-” 
> 
> “She has. She is. From both of us,” her brother reminded her. “Though you are doing more for her than I.”
> 
> “Why are you more difficult with her than me?” Arya hunched over the chair to speak more privately as they were entering a space with more people, people she did not like.
> 
> “I am not,” Bran paused before finishing, “You just relent…  _less_.”
> 
> Though Arya was pushing towards the Great Hall, she still absentmindedly asked her brother if he wanted to go to the meeting.
> 
> “Yes, I do, actually,” he rolled his eyes as they approached eight guards in front of the structure. 
> 
> “Princess?”
> 
> They addressed her first and by a title she was disgusted with. “Princess? Why are you-” 
> 
> “Arya, if you are to insist on dragging me from the heart tree, I do request to not dawdle and argue with this man,” Bran cut her off, and if she could she would have shoved him again, instead she just looked disdainfully towards the guards before pressing forward.
> 
> “What is going on?” she lowered herself back to Bran’s ear, whispering furiously. “I should ram everyone over with you.”
> 
> “Must not,” he turned sharply towards his sister, when they came to a stop because big men blocked their access to the isle.
> 
> “Excuse me,” in what she wished was a polite voice but knew was not when Bran jutted his chin higher. “What in seven hells is the problem,” she pushed the chair forward, uncaring that the man briefly glanced at her with irritation. He fixed himself properly when he noticed who they were.
> 
> Moving past him, Bran had asked for their pardon until they broke through to the front of the crowd, halting their progress when Arya finally got a good look ahead.
> 
> “Jon?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Jon.”

The softness in her own voice surprised Arya. It had definitely made all the men she had been glaring down for moons turn and face her. His name had come out just above a whisper, but the Great Hall was silent.

There were mutters, Arya knew all about them. She was known as the King’s favorite sister, though, how people knew was beyond her as those who did know were dead or long since gone from Winterfell. Most of them, at least.

It wasn’t important, and she would not correct it. She was, _is_ , Jon’s favorite and everyone understood it the moment meeting had ceased.

She was frozen, though. 

She was rooted in place as she took in the beard that hung low on his chin, the mustache that kissed his upper lip, and the stray raven curls framing his face while the a knot of his hair sat atop his head.

Long gone was her clean-shaven older brother with thick ringlets falling into his eyes, always too brooding to keep it tied and too unrefined to keep it pushed back.

Jon had gracefully stood and pushed past some of the queen’s advisors, guards, and the Imp. She thought to stare him down, but she could not fix her features, not even to steel herself. 

“Arya, go.” It was Bran’s voice, though _she_ was not sure because all she could notice was her brother, moving past people, towards her. 

He looked like a man. He looked like Father. _He looked like her._

He looked like a leader, far from the isolated and melancholic boy she grew up with. She thought that perhaps she would hate it, that he might have changed entirely, might have become unrecognizable.

That had been one of her fears, but no, it did not matter. 

Scars littered his face and her eyes started to burn with rage.

“Go.” _Bran._

Arya would have sworn to the Old Gods and the New that she did not run, but it wasn’t until she was halfway down the hall did her slow steps turn into a sprint as people cleared a path for her. Perhaps there was noise, maybe there wasn’t- she neither knew nor care. Everything else was drowned out as she landed in his arms, legs wrapping around him just like when they were young, even though she’d grown since then.

Burying her head in his furs, she tried to muffle the sob that she wished never came from her mouth, and she hid the tears she would later reprimand herself for letting fall.

As Jon squeezed her, the only words that came to her fell from her lips before she could stop herself. “He’s gone. They are all gone.”

The whole hall heard her and Arya didn’t know that Sansa had stood, eyes glassy and red faced. Even the queen held a doe-eyed face, full of sentiment.

Bran’s features had finally softened and the Lannister lord sat straighter as did every northern noble witnessing, perhaps the only time they would ever see their King and his youngest sister break all composure.

It should have been private, but they did not hold the faintest care. All Arya saw was the back of his neck and the little brown mark that had always resided there. All she smelled was the woods and a scent that had always been him: pine and leather. _Leather, just like Father._

The world could have ended that moment and she would not have minded.

“I know,” Jon rubbed her back, clutching her head to him. “You’re home now,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

With his words, she was now able to truly believe it. Almost a decade later.

Not one person said a thing as Jon relaxed his grip, allowing her down if she pleased. She did not want to let go, but she swallowed the bitterness towards responsibilities and formalities, grasping for some composure.

She wiped her face on his furs as best as she could and unwrapped her body from him. 

Letting out a breath, she attempted to pull herself back together, but he gave a ridiculous smile and reached his hand forward, touching her face with a rough palm.

Squaring her shoulders, she went to move back but Jon spoke, “You got bigger.”

“You didn’t.” And they both laughed, like they had not been through hell, like they both had not almost died.

Arya had heard the story and had the men not been hung, she would have done worse.

She shook the dark thoughts away, and with a small smile on her face, she turned to walk back to Bran before she noticed that he had been wheeled up by a big pudgy man with dark hair who smiled at her while her brows furrowed. She nodded at the man, looking to one of her brothers to explain who the man was, but Jon had bent forward to hug Bran.

Arya waited for a sad face from Jon at seeing their brother in the chair, but it did not come. His smile was large, and his dark eyes shone.

“Bran,” Jon exhaled. 

“I must speak with you. It is important.”

Arya shot him a look.

“Alright.” Jon frowned his Jon-like frown, adding, “After this.” He gestured at the woman behind him.

Her little brother opened his mouth to say something, but she smacked him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Sam.” Jon patted the pudgy man on the shoulder before motioning them forward towards the high table.

Arya hesitated, but Jon led her, hand resting comfortably on her back, guiding her.

There wasn’t enough room for all of them and Arya didn’t mind. She never liked sitting in front of so many people, preferring the back so that she could watch all exits and those who thought she was not watching.

Sitting at the high table allowed the lords to observe her more than her, them, but Jon insisted.

The queen moved to stand from her seat, her dark gown swaying as she stepped back, her advisors quick to follow.

Arya furrowed her brows again. They drew together further when Jon gestured towards the queen and her advisors casually. “This is-”

“Queen Daenerys Targaryen,” Arya supplied, while Bran added, “We know." 

They did. Sansa had spoken profusely about her discomfort of the Dragon Queen. Bran had not said much besides listing her accomplishments, which was already spoken about copiously, albeit negatively, by the northerners.

Arya had also heard some things about her in Braavos. People spoke not only of her beauty and savagery but her might and her kindness, most of which were present now with the way she stood, bowing instead of curtseying.

Arya returned the courtesy in the same manner.

The Dragon Queen said their names with knowledge, calling her Arya instead of Princess, Lady Arya Stark, or Lady Arya, and Bran with his lord title that Sansa insisted he use in the presence of nobles.

Jon then shifted Sansa into the seat he previously occupied, positioning Arya in her sister’s old seat before proceeding to wheel Bran up the table.

Jon stood, easy and relaxed, a step behind the chair Sansa sat in after turning down the seats both the Imp and the queen’s female advisor insisted he take.

Arya knew that Jon preferred to stand and talk, especially if he was to be speaking for long periods of time.

When they were younger, he would stomp around his room, mumbling about how unfair Ser Rodrick used to be during sparring lessons, never once stopping until he was sure he had nothing more to say. It never happened often, but when it did, Arya was there, sitting in a corner, watching him pace as he spoke, like now-, only she was seated at a high table instead of cross legged on a hard floor, and he was not complaining- but recounting what had happened within the last six moons.

Everything was an utter disaster that had happened in an unfathomable concurrence.

Some people believed him, some watched him with wary eyes, some watched with adoration, others with hatred, and Arya kept close observation of the latter. But then there were the same looks given to the queen.

Out of sheer curiosity, more than thrice, Arya had gazed upon the white-haired woman with both skeptical and impressed eyes. She handled the lords effortlessly, allowing Jon to be the harsher of the two. But Arya could see the temper in her eyes when some men spoke out of term. Anger flittered across her face in careful waves that made Arya smirk.

The purple eyes stalked her brother’s form as he stood before the table, speaking fervently on what was to come.

Jon had never been a talker, but Arya could see that something in him has changed because he commanded the room. If people did not love him, they resented him, but they all listened still.

“I understand some of you are wary,” Jon started. “I would be as well, but there is no other way. The war with the dead is approaching our door steps.”

The northern lords eyed the queen with such disgust, had she been any other monarch with a less questionable house, they would have been beheaded then and there. Jon knew that, his tensing body on defense.

The lords were scared of the silver queen as they should be if the stories were true. But Arya had not seen any dragons and the priorities of the lords were distorted at best, only a few speaking rationally, without fear, doubt and skepticism in their every word.

The notion of dead men walking was a hard concept for even her to grasp when she returned home, because she could not comprehend how shoddy her luck could be. She had not been home since she was child and once she returned, death was apparently knocking at their gates. 

Snapping out of her contemplation, Arya realized the meeting was over.

The queen, her advisors, and Arya’s siblings didn’t move to leave, especially Jon who watched the men filter out with a puff of his breath before turning around as the last fur cloak swept from the room.

Some of what she assumed to be Jon’s trusted men spoke in a huddle with Davos in the far corner of the room, but she ignored them, promising herself she would get a good look at the scuffling feet and hooded people in the back later.

“How long have you both known he was here?” She should have taken her leave, but it had been one of the few things plaguing her from when Jon began speaking of the recent past.

Her face must have looked unpleasant for Sansa to flinch and she watched her sister look to Bran, and then to Jon.

Bran responded immediately and impassively, stating that he had seen them only last week though Jon had been home for a fortnight.

The queen seemed put off by the information. Bran seemed to know many things but kept them private, which deeply unsettled everyone at the high table.

“I told Sansa not to tell you,” Jon admitted, stepping forward, resting his hand on the table’s edge. “She was only following my orders. The King’s orders.” _Yes, because she wouldn’t fucking listen to you as a brother,_ Arya wished to say, unaware of how much the dynamic of her siblings has changed.

She scoffed.

“I wished to tell you,” Sansa started, “It is not easy to-”

“Lie to me.” Arya wondered how Sansa had managed to do so and asked as much for her only to reply that she had not lied, just, essentially, _pussied_ around.

Jon’s eyes quickly darted to the Dragon Queen and Arya immediately understood. _Them_. Bran had seen _them_ , arrive. Tyrion Lannister and the queen’s advisors had arrived today, but the queen had not.

Glancing from her brother to the queen to Sansa’s weary eyes to Bran’s stoic ones, she nodded once before pushing back and out of her seat.

“Are you upset with me?” Sansa asked quickly, standing as well.

Arya was taken aback at the quickness. Their relationship was indeed strained, but they were both trying.

Ignoring the anger that rose in her at the tasks she realized Sansa had been giving to her, Arya rolled her eyes.

It was her fault. Sansa was a lot smarter than Arya gave her credit for as she was one of the only people that was able to pull the wool over her eyes. It would be a lie if she ever claimed to be unimpressed.

Shaking her head no, Arya turned to Jon, “You, yes. Try to be a bit more responsible and quick next time you fancy a short holiday traveling the continent.”

It was a sarcastic remark that released a breathy laugh from her brother.

“He is the only one of us that has traveled from one end of Westeros to the other,” Bran remarked as Arya walked past him.

She tossed him a look of confusion for her and Sansa both had as well, with the exception of Dorne. Arya shoved him, appreciating the playfulness momentarily gracing his features past his usual omniscience.

Walking around the table again, she took a bow in acknowledgment of the queen and her advisors, only glaring at the Lannister before turning to her brother who patted her shoulder in an attempt at calming her. 

Giving him a stern ‘you may be King to them but do not tell me what to do’ look, she turned to Sansa, jerking her head, wordlessly informing her she was to go spy on the lords.

When Arya walked towards the exit, that’s when she saw him. A person she never thought she would see again. Stocky and laid back until he noticed, with his crystal blue irises, her staring at him.

Her eyes went wide and her jaw unhinged slightly. Before anyone could notice she snapped back into her mastered passive face.

It had been so long. _Years_. She still felt the same.

“Milady,” he stepped from the wall he’d been leaning on and bowed.

Before she could pull her brain together, fathoming that he was still alive, and looked very well, from what she could see, she heard a low whistle that made the hairs on her arms stand up.

Turning slowly, she noticed one of the men she had been praying to kill.

Beside the shitty priest was a large ginger man with grey furs eyeing her, darting, most likely to her brother but she ignored him. He was big and looked brute in strength but seemed stupid in the head, and slow.

Before Beric could even think to grab his sword, she was in front of him, pulling him down, a dagger to his neck.

“Arya!” _Was it Jon or Sansa? Gendry, maybe?_

The ginger man made a move but the she pressed the knife deeper to the priest’s neck.

“You’ve changed,” he gave a nervous laugh.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slit your throat,” her voice was a dark whisper.

Jon and Sansa, who had immediately rushed from the head table were definitely calling for her to drop the knife and let the man go.

Feeling people swarm the area, Arya knew she could just move the knife just barely and end him, but she didn’t.

“Your brother needs my help,” Beric bit out, face turning colors from lack of air. “He needs me, we have been working together to-”

“My brother doesn’t need anyone besides his family now,” Arya spat, ignoring the voices ordering her to stop.

“The dead are coming, we fought them together, there are only a few of us that have truly fought them,” he breathed out as she loosened her grip to allow him to continue.

 _Right._ The entire reason why Jon left and then returned with the dragon queen.

“Arya, I asked him to be here,” Jon’s voice rang, loud and clear.

She had never heard such a tone from him, let alone addressed to her. It was _kingly_. She looked to her brother whose eyes betrayed the shock his face and his form didn’t show. He was absolutely horrified.

Neither her nor Jon lost eye contact as she told Beric, in a low tone, “Aye, you’re lucky. He is the only thing that is saving you.”

Arya jerked him from her grip, watching him fall into a heap of breathlessness.

She sheathed her dagger back into her belt.

The big red-haired man went to give the priest a hand while Jon opened his mouth. 

Cutting him off, Arya warned her brother, telling him, “Be careful with him and-” Arya looked around for other members of Beric’s brotherhood, carefully avoiding Gendry’s gaze.

“The rest of them are dead.” _Gendry_.

“Good,” she swiftly let out. “Be careful with him, brother,” Arya repeated her warning, jutting her chin out to Beric. “Him. _His kind_. They have an aptitude for taking bastard boys and selling them to people that want them harmed.”

With that she excused herself, distancing herself from Jon’s arms, ignoring his and Sansa’s call while she swiftly put on her hood.

She ignored the demands for her to come back, to speak, to calmly discuss what the hell she just did. She voluntarily blocked out Jon’s thunderous voice demanding to know, “What the fuck was that?!” She disregarded Sansa’s words of wisdom and understanding.

 _Yes_. Times are strenuous. _Yes._ They have all changed to survive.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys had crept up on Jon, quiet as an animal hunting their prey.

He had not noticed with his brusque pace echoing through his family’s tower.

It was rare that anyone could do such, especially in a moment of such high hostility but yet, she managed.

“Fuck!” Jon shrunk away from her rapidly approaching form.

She was on decent terms, which he knew would not last long for they still had a small council to attend soon, in addition to the fact that he had not told her of the high levels of resistance his sister had not been exaggerating about.

After hours of meeting not only with his guards and Davos, he had sat amongst some of the northern lords for a private audience that entailed not having Daenerys in it.

It was a ridiculous request, but he allowed them this one thing. It was awful, and Jon considered taking his family and the queen to Essos once more as the politics of Westeros were disgustingly evident in the time of impending doom. Nobody understood the magnitude of the war that was approaching- only those who have _seen_ and Lady Mormont, and she was ten and two years.

“Language,” Dany scolded, stepping in line with him.

She had slipped back into her queenly face well enough while Jon struggled to even take himself serious anymore with the amount of repetition coming from his mouth.

Noticing the crinkles on his forehead, Dany questioned if he was well.

“Stressed,” was all Jon ruffed out.

They had been walking. To where? Jon was not sure, just pacing through the halls, neither of them desiring to see their advisors just yet.

“I have never been pulled in so many directions,” he admitted after some time of silence, wringing his hands.

Daenerys knowingly nodded and stepped closer to him, placing a palm on his forearm.

“Almost 8 years ago, I gave Arya that blade she easily held to Beric’s throat earlier.”

She had grown into this person Jon feared he knew nothing of, and it frightened him.

Familiarity was what Arya represented in his life- true siblingship and unconditional love for she was his baby sister.

But she was no longer that child he knew then, she was an assassin.

“Have you spoken to her?” Daenerys stepped in front of him, stopping him from resuming his pacing.

“Can’t find her,” Jon’s eyes lowered, attempting to hide his distress but it seeped into his voice. “Can you believe that? I can’t find the only sibling I knew like the back of my hand.”

Daenerys bit her lip in contemplation, but Jon knew there was nothing she could say.

Reaching up to loosen her tooth’s grip on her pout, he whispered, “You know everything else has gone to utter shit when _you_ , the Dragon Queen, are the only sense of normalcy and peace I have in my life.”

While Jon had shaken his head, he never noticed how her eyes gleamed at the words.

“Is there anything that I can do to help?”

Jon had replied to her question with a shake of his head and a reassuring smile though his eyes spoke of defeat.

Jon reached for her hand, to hold.

 

 

***

 

 

Terror gripped Jon’s throat the first night he spent alone in Winterfell away from Daenerys’ side.

He dreamt of his queen, ashen-faced and still, an army of their men in a battle surrounding them.

When he woke, he could not remember if there was blood or a wound, or what was happening only that she was gone and he was screaming noiseless sounds.

At dusk, Jon put a wooden sword in her hands and tells her how to stand in proper position. They did not spar, only instructed her how her sword becomes her arm. That it was is an extension of herself.

He traced the lines of her body with his hands and before the wooden weapon fell from her grasp, he barked at her to focus. _Never lose focus_ , he scolded her but it is truly meant for himself.

They trained until the deep hours of night, in hushed tones and minimal noise, working on her posture, though always impeccable. He complemented her on her ability to remember every stance he put her in but never fully praised her. His eyebrow always arched, critical to ensure she was learning.

The more they seemed to dance around each other with the weapons, the warmer they got, removing more and more articles of clothing.

She was in her shift dress that Missandei insisted she don for, in the Naathi woman’s words, “The northern climate is highly disagreeable.” 

It was a remark that had sent Jon into a fit of laughter at supper. It had made even the most rigid northern guard posted at the side of the banquet table gruff out a laugh and the youngest female Stark smirk.

 _Some progress_ , Tyrion had commented between sips of ale, lowly to Jon. They had yet to speak privately, only some words through meetings and Dany, but the King did agree that Missandei was a master of communication.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon would continue the feat to arm his queen until the day she vanished.

 

 

***

 

 

Like her brother, Sansa felt the great darkness looming.

It had drove her to acting like Jon’s wolf, following him and her siblings around like a shadow, carefully watching to make sure nothing happened to them.

“My lady-” Podrick began, standing next to her.

Shaking her head, she narrowed in on her brother in his usual black but this time, his face had a most unusual brightness, such cheer Sansa did not know he was capable of.

The Lady of Winterfell watched her brother casually chase after the queen, slowing when he felt too near, allowing her to run away, and when she’d turn around with an angry look, he would bend over as if out of breath.

Podrick let out an easy chuckle, entertained, as they watched on.

“You are not even trying,” Sansa heard the queen call out.

They looked like night and day but when Jon was just close enough, he was a dark sky surrounding her and she was the moon, so bright and striking.

Then the queen ran, to where she could easily blend with the snow in her white furs and silver hair.

When Sansa proceeded to glare at the squire, he simply said that Jon was doing it not to be chivalrous, but to annoy her, _the queen_. But that wasn’t why Sansa was upset.

It did not matter why Jon had not chosen to envelope the queen when he had the chance, or knock her to the ground, which had been common in her brothers, Theon, and Arya’s violent games, but that they looked straight out of the romantic tales she had read when she had been stupid, and infatuated with the idea of love.

Anybody could be watching them as she and Podrick were now, and anyone could deduce as she had.

Queen Daenerys was difficult to read and could easily play off her gazes as foreigners’ lust. But _Jon_ , Jon held his heart in his eyes. They were not stone around anyone he loved.

The queen took off running again, light and agile, swift between pathways, carefully darting and hopping in the snow but Jon could catch her easily if he wanted. No matter how smooth and fast on her feet the queen was, Jon held northern blood. He knew the weather, which steps were not rickety and how icy the snow would be, but he refrained.

It was an informal playfulness. Not competitive, almost lazy and frustratingly so for the queen, it seemed, “You are supposed to catch me, not watch me,” she whined.

Sansa waited for her brother to deny, to do something smart.

“If I win, what is my prize?”

 _Death_ , it was not a prize but it would be a result, Sansa just knew. She gripped the side of the wall, her vision suddenly blurring with fear.

When she felt Podrick’s palm on her shoulder she looked at him with worried eyes to which he returned a light smile, telling her, “Even in times of disaster we never cease to be human.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jon couldn’t recall how many times he had almost winced under his queen’s look of scorn after stating that he and her Lord Hand must speak, _privately_. It was during supper, after he had lightly smacked her hand from steaming bread to which she made a face and returned the gesture. She picked it up, letting the steam graze her fingertips, and with a pointed look at him. She ignored Tyrion’s gaze of disapproval, but bowed her head down, her cheeks tinting pink.

Jon frowned, knowing better than to do as she did. Hot rolls fresh from the furnace was not how his hands would meet their end. Pulling him from his thoughts, Tyrion cleared his throat reminding Jon he needed a word with him.

Daenerys glared at both men in turns, but neither Jon nor her Hand surrendered their courage.

When Tyrion finally met her eyes, she sighed for he was asking her to trust him.

She waved her hand and gave them leave to have their private meeting.

“She is thoroughly displeased me with me,” Tyrion commented on their way to Jon’s office.

“I can’t imagine why,” Jon shot, letting annoyance rise to the surface of their conversation.

Tyrion exhaled and waited until they arrived at Jon’s solar to speak again. “Was it that awful?” the Hand stopped as Jon opened the door.

“We hardly spoke for the first week,” Jon clipped, irritation floating back as he remembered how miserable traveling was in the beginning. It had been mixed with a confusion that had flustered him.

He walked towards his chair as he recalled his anger at Daenerys’ stubborn and reckless behavior. He had tried not to act too hurt at the fact that she still hadn’t trusted him, in addition to the lust that had begun clouding his mind.

Jon was completely disappointed in himself for not being able to follow protocol.

Since returning to Winterfell, he had multiple conversations on her advisement and army, and Grey Worm had been brought up plenty. Perhaps the Commander of the Unsullied could have grabbed Daenerys and Missandei both, may haps the man had it handled and it was himself that failed that day.

“And the three weeks after that?” Tyrion looked for a goblet after eyeing him with a knowing stare.

“Her absolute trust is hard to earn,” Jon deflected.

“And yet you have,” Tyrion spoke pensively, “Earned it, that is,” the Hand specified.

Jon did not know about that. He had some of her trust, that he was positive. _All of it?_ Jon shook his head in uncertainty.

“How was-”

“None of that,” Jon scrunched his face up at the lord’s probing. He knew what the Imp was doing, and he refused to be a pawn or to be emotionally manipulated.  
  
“What happened south?”

The small lord threw up his hands in incredulity. “What have I done to earn your mistrust too _, Your Grace_?” the man pulled at the chair across from Jon, lifting himself into it with scorn on his face. “Was this not the plan?”

Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead. He apologized, explaining that he understood Dany’s anger at the both of them. They of course argued on whether or not it was the right call, Tyrion vehemently defending the decision stating that everyone that needed to be alive was, and that they could finally fight this great war.

“Dany told me tha-”

“Oh, it’s Dany now?” Jon’s blunder left him momentarily paralyzed. By the time he thought he could hold a decent façade, Daenerys’ Hand sat with carefully folded palms and watchful eyes

It was silent for a while until Jon leaned forward and asked, “What did you really tell Cersei for her to let you go?”

The disbelief on Tyrion’s face did not last long and was followed with a discontented noise and a plea for wine. Jon denied him the latter as Tyrion spoke. “That you and Her Majesty are forgiving folk.”

The King’s hands clasped together in front of his lips while he looked up to the Old Gods, mentally questioning if he had heard correctly. He was certain that Tyrion had not told Daenerys this and part of him wondered why he even asked. The last thing he desired was the man’s foolish decisions on his conscience.

“You know she will never allow her to live,” Jon paused, rubbing his face. “She would never _want_ that and that was most certainly not what we agreed on.”

“I saw an opportunity and I seized it.”

Both Jon and the Lord Hand shared the same weary look.

“Tyrion, you have to understand-”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Jon’s face started to redden. “Truly? I know you will find a way to coerce her or have her believe that allowing Cersei to live is in her best interest but after what happened-”

“Do you believe our queen to be that weak-minded?”

Jon refused to fall into the small man’s mind games, “No, I believe that she loves you,” Jon spat, “While your sister abuses your feelings.”

“Where are her men? Where is the support from the south? Your sister does not care, and she is volatile,” Jon stood now, pacing the room. “Trust me I understand, Tyrion,” he stopped by a window. It had a good view of the front gates, exactly where he had almost beat Ramsay Bolton dead.

With a low voice, he whispered, “I am speaking to you not as King or Lord Commander, just Jon Snow, the bastard boy with a few family members left. I know what it means to love your siblings. I led thousands of men at my charge to their death for one. I had killed countless and almost killed a man with my fists for another,” Jon looked at the man who had given him some of the best advice he’d ever received. “And I would do it all again-”

 _Love is a -convoluted thing_. The saying had gotten stuck in Jon’s throat, stuck in his head. It was an omen, taunting him since the day Daenerys uttered it.

Tyrion was on his last leg with the queen and Jon was not even sure what would make her kick it, and he did not wish to find out. As two leaders, they needed sound advisors and the Tyrion was clever, but no matter how hard he tried to cover it up, his heart was big and soft for fucked up people.

“I just needed to be released,” Tyrion breathed out, standing as well.

In the far side of Jon’s mind, he knew that Tyrion believed that, but he also understood that the man could find a way to keep Cersei alive. Daenerys cared for him, for she too had a fondness for broken and irreparable things, and nobody wants to see someone they love miserable and forced to swallow their demons on their own.

“What we did was wrong no matter how well intentioned we were,” Jon admitted to his friend’s back. 

“Promise me something, Jon Snow,” Tyrion commanded quietly. “Promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to keep her safe. She listens to you more than she will ever listen to me, I see now.” _No_. They listened to each other more than they would ever listen to anyone else. Tyrion could see that clearly, even with his face turned away.

“We want similar things, my lord.”

Finally, the man faced Jon and smiled a nimble one.

Showing that his aim was not simply to scold the Lannister, but to also show his own confidence in the man that gave him true wisdom ages ago, he asked Tyrion, “May I have your counsel, Lord Tyrion?”

The quick quirk of the Lord Hand’s eyebrow gave away his curiosity.

It was a family affair that Jon also believed to be in all of their similar interests. 

“My sister is an assassin, what do I do with her?” the words fell from Jon’s lips all too fast. “How can I show my faith in her, support her while still keeping her safe?” Jon swallowed back the emotion that threatened his esophagus. “I don’t suppose you want your throat split in the middle of the night, aye?”

 

 

***

 

 

_“The bells.”_

Months before Jon left for Dragonstone, a system had been adopted at the castle much like the towers on the Wall.

One bell meant the return of their monarch.

One bell with two short bursts meant the arrival of guests & allies.

Two bells alerted them of danger or battle.

Two bells with two short chimes meant mount up and ready weapons.

Three meant the Great War has come.

When Ser Davos had returned, one bell with two short bursts rang out and Sansa had known who it would be immediately. Hairs had not stood on her back that day.

The same bells had rung again one calm afternoon in Winterfell.

There was some excitement from the queen, but Jon had stood stiff for it could not have been her army. The Dothraki were fast, but they would not have been able to make it in that short span of time.

She and Jon had comprehended that something unfortunate waited at the gate when two bells with corresponding two short chimes had sounded, but Lady Brienne appeared.

Sansa and Podrick had both looked relieved, but the red headed Stark girl did not make a step forward as the squire had.

Behind the lady-knight stood Ser Jaime Lannister.

 

 

***

 

 

The next small council meeting had not only grown in size but had also been pushed further ahead.

There had been only so many hours in each day that Jon had for his advisors unless highly urgent.

Strategies for the armies and moving people further south had taken up Jon’s brain capacity first. However, he later had to divide it into time licking his wounds after Tyrion’s agreement with Sansa on tasking Arya to gather information regarding rebellious behavior, coaxing the northern lords to further trust him, followed by making Sansa understand why not just _some_ people needed to be vacated from the most northern territories, all of them needed to be.

 

Finding an acceptable explanation other than, ‘The Wall _might_ come down’ was not a good enough idea and his words of warning was not a convincing one either. Thus, his report from Tormund and his discussions with Arya, Bran, and Sam had all been postponed.

Little did he know how imperative them speaking was, and he’d soon find out.

_Tormund was first._

“I will not ask you again, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys’ voiced echoed in the hostile silence. “What happened?”

It should have been a remote gathering for this was not how many monarchs conducted their meetings. This was not how women spoke, especially in the north.

The amount of aggression and intimidation that radiated off of Daenerys was frightening to everyone but Jon, Arya and Tyrion.

Arya was taking a visual delight from the far corner of the council room at the small lord getting interrogated.

“I am not privy to any information outside of what I had told you my very first day in Winterfell, Your Grace,” Tyrion started. “And since I am not allowed to speak to Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne or Ser Podrick, I cannot tell you. However, I am left to assume that we have been betrayed.”

Jon nearly winced.

Jaime Lannister had not even been given time to speak anything but a greeting, for he had not only been swarmed by Stark troops but Daenerys’ guards as well.

There was no reason as to why the Lannister lord should have been north alone with a northern ally and absolutely no army.

It was suspicious and awful timing.

Northern lords were in uproar for they wanted his head. Queen Daenerys was furious after the disaster at the pit. Sansa was deeply distrustful and only looked to Jon who took orders from Daenerys.

The Kingslayer now resided in a holding cell, but Jon wasn’t convinced of Jaime Lannister’s deception at the current moment.

“Betrayed us or betrayed _you_?”

Jon exhaled quietly before gazing at Daenerys’ pacing figure to his right, waiting for her to feel his sight on her before she said something she would have to apologize for later.

“The only thing we can do is find as to why he is truly here,” Ser Davos said.

“I had a chance to speak with Lady Brienne and I trust her, Jon-” Sansa started.

“But?” Arya interrupted.

Sansa sighed.

Not only was Ser Jaime taken beneath Winterfell but him, Lady Tarth and Ser Podrick Payne had all been separated.

“She says that Ser Jaime has come to support Queen Daenerys and the King in the North in their battle against death.”

Scoffs sounded across the room. Words of espionage had been spoken but Tyrion’s made the most sense.

“Why would my sister send her favorite brother,” Tyrion cleared his throat, “The only man she has ever loved, the father of her children, north?”

The lord hand shook his head, “Pardon me, but this is foolish behavior and entirely my brother’s decision,” Lord Tyrion’s expression went dark. “He may be good in combat and express expertise in battle strategy, but he could have been shot down at the gate.”

Jon had agreed for there was no deal-making anymore. As far as Cersei and Jaime Lannister knew, Daenerys still had at least one dragon, but still, Jon paused on his final word when Daenerys spoke lowly, eyes downcast.

“You told your sister that we were good; good rulers, good people. _Compassionate_. What part of those descriptions convey “shoot him down at the gate,” my lord?”

Jon had not kept the lord’s words secret, and the small man knew it from her icy gaze the following morning. However, she had a fair argument that prompted Jon to keep his mouth closed.

He was still not convinced that the taller of the lions of the Rock had the best intentions but he didn’t believe he was a spy either.

“Your sister,” Daenerys stopped momentarily, sighing, composing herself, “Cersei Lannister… the only reason her lover would come here with noble intentions would mean hers is of the most malevolent.” That Jon believed.

“At least ask him before you kill him.”

Jon eyed Tyrion who paid little attention to anyone in the room besides his queen.

It was quiet, and everyone had been watching their exchange with a ferocious attention to detail.

Dany looked away- her Hand following. They steeled themselves like nothing had happened.

Jon followed Daenerys’ form with his eyes to her seat at the opposite end of the table, beside Missandei.

Sansa had spoken for Lady Brienne who was ready to swear on her sword for Ser Jaime, but it wasn’t until the queen looked to Jon, who nodded, that she agreed to question him.

There was a great risk in bringing another Lannister north. If Cersei indeed had nothing to do with her brothers’ defection, then they would not only have to deal with the northern repercussions but Cersei’s scorn as well.

Due to Podrick’s history with everyone involved, he would still have to be divided much to Sansa’s argument for his morals. Even Arya had agreed, asking Jon, “Shouldn’t you be more cautious with the Imp than the squire that had been protecting your sister for the last six moons?”

“Enough,” Jon retorted to the both of them, knowing Podrick’s exclusion would not last long.

After, he called for Tormund to speak. Jon _could_ be perceptive. It was one of his strengths, especially at the wall but his eye had failed him for he did not notice the wildling paling in the days spent in Winterfell.

His friend began to speak warily about a dragon sighted north of the wall.

Jon attempted to swallow but his mouth went dry with sudden understanding.

Looking to the wooden table, he found a particular spot to hold his attention that would not be the white-haired woman or the red-haired man before him in fear that his prior knowledge of this would show. 

“Drogon went north?” the queen’s voice arose.

“Drogon was not North, my queen, he went back to Essos according to Lord Varys and Daario’s spies,” Tyrion reminded her. _Daario_?

Jon glanced up to see Lord Tyrion’s eyes squint at the wildling.

“Rhaegal was and should be at Dragonstone, Your Grace,” Missandei restated with carefulness, carefully reminding her that he would not leave the safety of her ancestral seat.

“What color was the dragon, Ser?”

Jon recognized what Daenerys was doing by the sound of her voice but the attempt at detachment would be futile.

He looked at Sam who glanced at him before turning his gaze towards the wildling.

“White and yellow.” The queen’s jaw unhinged just enough for Jon to know that a small gasp had escaped before she pursed her lips back together. “They- the free folk compared it to a cloud- a moving one. But it had wings. I thought it to be another one of yours and they were just-”

Dany paled.

“That is enough,” Jon stopped Tormund.

“What does that mean, Jon?” _Sansa._

“That is enough,” Jon repeated. “This meeting is over. Nothing that was said here leaves this room, understand?”

The amount of hesitant looks that were tossed in his direction were overwhelming. The only people that followed his orders immediately were Sam and Gendry, they were the first to leave.

Tyrion and Missandei with their understanding of what Tormund’s words meant held their positions, giving him looks of confusion and warning. The two, along with Ser Davos, were the last people to leave the room with him and Dany in it, however, before Arya had left, she had given him a meaningful look before excusing herself, letting him know she was going to be with Bran for his “sight.”

When Tyrion exited, he glanced at him and Daenerys, and then slowly nodded before holding the door for Missandei who grasped Dany’s hand before leaving.

Dany nodded blankly.

Ser Davos followed, giving his apologies before eyeing Jon who only nodded.

Silence had followed like it always did, and neither of them moved until she rasped, “You knew.”

Jon acquiesced.

“You still don’t trust me?... Or is it that you blame-”

“I didn’t want to look into your eyes and break your heart without certainty.”

A muffled sob escaped her lips and Jon swung from his seat to her. Pain etched her face while red spots covered her cheeks.

“I’ll have to kill him.” Tears welled in her eyes as she gasped out.

Her body was shaking, and all he could do was hold her as she rubbed her face into his chest.

 _Her child._ The dragon was her child.

Something Jon could not fathom even if he had tried. He would never be a father, and a parent’s love is supposed to be unwaning and absolute.

So, all he did was reach for her as despondency filled the air.

He remembered Sam telling him, _“We will figure it out. No one is alone in this.”_

“I won’t let you do this alone,” he folded her into his chest as sobs wracked her body.

But that did not mean she would not try to anyway.

 

 

****

 

 

The second time Arya and Jon had spoken, it had been subdued.

He had found her hiding in the kitchens staring at the cook preparing meat for a stew.

 _Finally_.

In the back of his mind, Jon believed it was because she wanted to be found, not because he knew her well. In fact, they hardly knew the person they were staring at and it was difficult because they were restrained; awkward because of the awkwardness, and neither was too pleased about it.

It started as a silent affair, both of them staring at each other until Arya rolled her eyes and Jon sighed.

“I won’t call you King Jon and bow-”

“I don’t expect you to,” Jon scoffed.

“I came home for you-” Arya started and Jon apologized immediately for not being there and proceeding to hide from her after his return.

They were in the family solar now, staring diligently until they traded off; Jon rolled his eyes this time and Arya sighed.

“Kingly duties and such,” Arya started, standing. “I understand…” she trailed off absentmindedly playing with tassels on a rug with the tip of her boot.

“I hope I am still your favorite girl,” her lips curled around the words in distaste.

A knowing look was apparent in the young Stark’s eyes as theirs connected.

She was testing him.

“I missed you,” Jon said, not acknowledging his sister’s statement which had not gone unnoticed by her.

He could play her game. That is what they have always done, meddle and tease.

The queen was acceptable by Arya’s standard; a powerful woman, obviously respected by _her_ people. She was strong, for anybody that sought to interrupt her she silenced with or without Jon’s word, foreign and northern men alike.

Sansa had been the one who was less enthused and impressed.

Sucking up her pride, fully knowing she was still his favorite _sibling_ by the way he looked for her acceptance, she stated with ease, “I can kick your arse now.” Arya glanced up to Jon who did the same, wisps of dark hair falling into his eyes.

He looked young again, like Jon her half-brother, Jon her favorite person in the world.

They laughed, and it was big, echoing in the solar like remnants of their past selves.

But Arya had been telling the truth and the next day would be Jon’s full recognition of it.

 

+

 

“How do you expect to defeat an army of dead men with half of their numbers and weapons- _no_ , lack of weapons?” Jaime turned to Tyrion, eyeing the two Dothraki guards behind them with displeasure. “You and the queen are asking for the impossible, correct me if I am mistaken?”

Tyrion pursed his lips while leading his older sibling along a ramp, “Weapons are being prepared, soldiers are being trained while the rest arrive-”

“But you do not trust that Jon Snow has it all together,” the knight supplied for his brother.

“Do not put those words in my mouth,” Tyrion warned as they neared a view of the courtyard. “The King is more than capable of coming out of the most disastrous situations.”

“And his army, her dragon, the people?”

“Both King Snow and I can agree that new eyes, ones of efficiency, especially ones that have seen as much as yours have, could be,” Tyrion paused, turning to his brother before continuing. “Helpful.”

“Strategy is your best skill, dear brother,” the smaller Lannister stated with a wave of his hand explaining that his usefulness must be accentuated. “Jon Snow has grown strong and hot-headed... Fighting is his.”

Both lions stopped and peered past the ramp to the courtyard in clear view.

Men stood circled around the King whose sword was firmly grasped, poised for attack.

Tyrion had brought his brother to see something; to understand the new world he was walking into, the leaders that he was dealing with. They were not Cersei, so far removed from what the monarchy was in King’s Landing.

Jon Snow arose with the sun every morning since the Hand of the Queen had arrived and trained with his men.

With recognition to the Gendry Waters whom he still had not spoken to the queen about, Beric, the wildling that went by the name of Tormund Giantsbane, Samwell, and Podrick, Tyrion noticed that half of the men looked to be yielding.

Jon Snow had taken off his furs and most outer layers leaving his jerkin and light armor and swung so hard, Sam stepped back, immediately stating that he’d rather not. “I shall practice with Lady Brienne later,” the former man of the Night’s Watch said with a frown.

Jaime stiffened at the lady’s name.

“Mate, she’s no easier than me,” Jon frowned.

His brother snorted in agreement and laughed at the Tarly boy’s next words. “Perhaps she will take pity on me,” Sam looked hopeful.

“She won’t,” Podrick said with a sulk.

Tyrion watched his brother’s lips turn up in amusement as Jon Snow commanded his friend.

“Shield up, Sam.”

The wildling insisted that Jon would have better luck with Tarly’s wildling woman to which Jon had replied with a look that straightened Sam out.

The sparring began and ended fairly quickly when Lady Stark approached them, calling for Pod.

Tarly had taken a breath of relief while the wildling dismissed the rest of the men.

“Tell these girls to fuck off, would ya?” Tormund nodded towards Jon picking up a skin of water while waving at what the giant man deemed southerners. “Fight me like a real man.”

Beric protested while Gendry made a face but the rest of them could not be happier to step aside despite the mild offence.

“Charming,” Jaime grinded out towards his brother.

Tyrion heard the stories of Jon Snow infiltrating the wildling camp of Mance Rayder, how he’d become one of them through the mouths of northern men and the tales were far darker than what trickled its way to Varys’ birds, south.

“They say he’s the greatest swordsman in Westeros,” Tyrion quoted the Spider, sucking in a breath as the queen came into view with Missandei and her two handmaidens.

“Is that so?” Jaime asked quietly, perhaps somberly recalling the days when he, too, held the same title.

Jon, not noticing Daenerys, rolled his eyes and cursed violently at the ginger, throwing an apology at his sister for his language.

“Pick up your hammer, boy, and distract him while I strip a little,” he winked at Waters, “Warm him up for me, aye?”

Jon grimaced while Tormund took the armor off.

When Gendry swung, the fight began.

The man was no match for Jon, everyone knew that. Jon was agile and though the bastard bull was stronger, Jon was quicker.

“Priest, get in there and give him a challenge- give him a reason to pray.”

_Two on one._

Tyrion jutted out his chin while watching Jon swing, and swing, and swing, seeing him almost violently black out as his foot jutted into Beric’s chest knocking him to the ground, and turn on Gendry who shouted, “Fuck! Yield.”

“Pussy,” Giantsbane spat. “C’mon, Crow.”

Jon’s face darkened as he panted. Then he swung again.

The wildling gave Jon a bit more of a fight simply because he fought dirty; kicking rocks at Jon’s face while he was down, grabbing onto his arm, and speaking in ways one should ever address a monarch.

Sansa had gasped out something, but the queen made her way towards the Lady of Winterfell, placing a hand on her forearm to stop her, watching Jon with what looked to Tyrion to be a swell of pride.

Something was said when Tormund had Jon locked, though, weapons disregarded, Jon must have snapped for he got loose and landed a blow straight to the ginger’s jaw.

Both Jaime and Tyrion leaned forward on the railing to see if the wildling had been knocked out. Even Jon had looked concerned and crouched down to the man, but booming laughter rang through the yard.

“Fucking bastard.”

Jon stood up, red faced, out of shame or anger, Tyrion was not certain but what he was sure about was the look of shock and then warmth on his face when he turned in his sister’s direction and saw Daenerys.

She clapped for him, bowing in respect.

Sansa followed, though reluctantly, the queen’s lead.

Tyrion gritted his teeth in disdained worry and shook his head, clapping as well. His brother followed 

The King had been sparring for hours by this fight, and yet, pink in the face, layered with dirt and sweat, he looked a little worn at most. Jon Snow still stood straight and waved them off with an eye roll and called for some drills to his men.

 

+

 

“Coulda broke my jaw,” Tormund said whilst being jerked up by Jon himself, “I ain’t applauding ya." 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be leaving your jaw unguarded, Ser,” Arya said, stepping from a corner where she had been watching her brother fight.

The giant turned around to the young Stark girl and frowned. 

Arya couldn’t be sure whether he was scared of her or her brother’s careful warnings in regard to his sisters.

“And maybe _you_ should fight against people who can actually beat you,” Arya commented smoothly towards Jon.

“And that’d be?”

A scoff sounded at the arrogance Jon displayed. She knew it was Gendry.

Grinding her teeth, purposefully ignoring him, Arya raised her eyebrow, “Don’t get cocky now, brother.”

Removing her cloak, she said, “Fight me.”

“Absolutely not,” he denied with a laugh, not taking her seriously.

Jon took a cloth from a squire and wiped at his face and remarked that she shouldn’t even be down there.

Arya motioned her hand towards the ladies and herself, her forehead bunched up waiting for him to turn around.

“And why is that?” Queen Daenerys questioned, her sing song voice elegantly capturing the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

Carefully assessing the queen’s demeanor and the looks of affront on the women’s faces including their sister, Arya turned back to her brother with a carefully measured amount of conceit.

“I am sure King Jon means that you ladies mustn’t be smelling something as awful as him,” Beric covered while all Stark eyes rolled.

A twinkle of laughter escaped the queen’s lips, perhaps at Jon’s lack of defense or at the priest’s jape.

“I can only speak for myself, Beric, but I have smelled far viler things than His Majesty,” she started, with a careful look to Jon. “I wouldn’t call the smells of hard work and passion awful either.”

“You and I both, Your Grace,” the Tormund nodded at the queen, a suggestive look beginning to grace his features.

Jon’s eyes narrowed towards the wildling in irritation, but the Dragon Queen’s lips quirked with mirth while her female advisor’s laughter skirted the courtyard.

“Enough,” Jon threw the cloth at Tormund while the queen elbowed her advisor.

“And your opinion.” Arya caught her brother’s attention once more. “King Jon,” she mocked.

“I am not fightin’ you,” he dismissed with a nervous breath.

“Are you scared of fighting a girl?”

Arya heard the queen stifle a giggle.

“No-”

“Are you scared that I’ll beat you?” Arya teased.

“You won’t.”

“Are you sparing me embarrassment?”

She looked like the female version of Jon; hard eyes, dark, messy curls framing her face, muscled, broad-shouldered but slenderly built, with dark and heavy emotion gracing her features.

“Don’t answer that,” Tormund shot out towards her brother.

Arya gave the big man a look.

“No,” her brother replied to her.

“Stupid arse,” Tormund shook his head, offering Arya his sword.

She waved him off, showing the man she had her own no matter how small it was in comparison to her brother’s or the sparring ones.

“So why are you denying me the privilege, Your Grace?" 

“Arya-.”

“Shield up, Crow,” Tormund tossed him the protective disk.

“Arya.”

“You keep saying my name, and although I hadn’t heard much in the last few years, I do think it’s becoming quite annoying,” she started. “Sword at the ready,” she called out.

Jon looked for Sansa to knock some sense into their sister, but was immediately called back before he could look past the wispy white hair of the queen’s.

“Don’t look at Sansa, look at me.”

“Arya,” their sister called out, finally protesting.

“Shush Sansa,” she motioned for her to shut up, and then looked back at Jon. “Will you deny me the only thing I have asked of you since you’ve been back? You owe me, you know. Put on your big boy breeches and fight me, we haven’t got all day.”

Jon searched for anger in her eyes, or maybe annoyance or built up frustration but all Arya offered him was humor and a careful reminder that he had been home for weeks before she had gotten to see him. For that, she deserved something. _That and dealing with Sansa for moons._  

“Armor. Shield,” Jon said somberly and through gritted teeth.

“I don’t need it.”

“Arya.”

“I am not fighting with a wooden sword either, so come off it,” she tossed at her brooding brother. “Let’s go.”

The third time Arya and Jon had spoken, there hadn’t been as much “talking” per say, not nearly as much as there had been fighting.

Jon was remarkably talented with the sword. Arya understood that from when they were younger and heard Jon being told to go easy. But Arya had surprise on her side, speed, and her smaller frame.

She had danced around him, light on her toes but steady on her feet when near him.

If she could fight Brienne, he would not be hard work for the only thing he had that Brienne didn’t was cunning and stamina.

Brienne was too big to keep going the way Jon did, and her brother was crafty but so was she.

“Where did you learn this?” He grabbed her forcefully, restraining her, taking needle away in a fit of anger.

It happened too fast and Arya was livid. “Did you think I was braiding hair in the brothels in Essos?” she kicked him in the shin, grabbing her weapon back.

While he was ducking over in pain, she bent down effortlessly and whispered, “You hesitate on your left, fix that.”

“Maybe it was just you I hesitated for?” he rubbed at his leg.

“Worse,” she smirked as a loose chuckle escaped him. “You should fix that too. Do stop looking concerned, you should be exceedingly happy you have one less sibling to worry about.”

They both stood straight and Jon frowned, unsurprisingly.

“I’ll worry about you ‘til the day I die.”

“Keep hesitating and that day will come sooner than later,” she turned her back to her brother, who was probably pouting, and fixed her vest, looking for her cloak.

Arya ignored the gapes from the men around them, fighting against the silence with her shuffles feigning an easy nonchalance.

Her eyebrows knotted together, looking to Ser Payne, whom she was positive she left it by, pointed a finger and, “Just because you trained with my brother does not mean you get out of it with me tonight,” she squinted at the squire to which he responded with a respectful and fearful nod. 

With one last glance at the bench beside Podrick, she turned around and almost bumped into the man she had been avoiding.

“Milady,” Gendry offered her the thin fur.

Swallowing and never meeting his disgustingly blue eyes, she snatched it and walked away.

She knew he snickered once her back was turned to him.

 _Stupid bullheaded coward_.

 

 

***

 

 

When Daenerys had spoken with Ser Jaime, she found out that Cersei was planning on procuring men in Essos, proving his worth for time being.

With a concerned look towards the Lady Stark, she wondered if his admission would be enough to keep the angry northerners pliant.

 _It must_ , she thought before leaving to send a raven to Daario to convene with Lord Theon Greyjoy when he docks across the narrow sea. The last thing she desired was for the man to die in attempts to save his sister because of the army Euron Greyjoy happened to have fall into his lap at Cersei’s word. 

She never made the trip, however, for a great white beast crept up on her.

Daenerys prided herself in her perspicacity so how the white mass managed to elicit a scream out of her, she would never understand.

_Jon. Jon has a wolf._

Eyes as red as blood, fur as white as fresh snow.

 _Ghost_ , she remembered.

However, she did not recall Jon saying he was intrusive.

 _Absolutely no respect for personal space like his owner_. Daenerys began panting in fear for the wolf was backing her against the wall.

He was massive and her mind blanked for she had no idea as to how she should treat a direwolf.

He only sniffed her up and down and watched her carefully until he shrunk away at the sight of Jon bursting into the hallway with a sword in his hands and worried eyes.

“Ghost!” The animal let out a whimper at the tone in Jon’s voice. Actually, Daenerys was no longer sure if it was the beast or her own wince for Jon’s eyes softened while hers widened.

The wolf sat right in front of her as Jon sheathed his sword, taking hard strides towards them.

Dany’s stomach swelled with pity as Ghost’s head bowed to his scolding.

“Jon!” Lady Sansa came flying in, her red hair whipping around, Ser Payne on her heels.

A few guards filtered past as Daenerys stayed glued to the wall, eyes darting between everyone, including her puffing Lord Hand.

“It is fine,” Jon dismissed immediately, but their advisors stayed, not to his knowledge as he directed his attention back to Dany.

Still, she stood frozen.

“You mean to tell me you live amongst fire breathing dragons and you fear an oversized wolf,” Jon spoke, his lips widening into a grin that snapped her out of her temporary paralysis.

Swallowing her shock, she gave him a look of indignation and slowly stuck out her hand for the animal to sniff or do whatever direwolves did to familiarize themselves with people.

Daenerys had been in Winterfell a moon and the animal had not killed her yet, so she chose to hope that was not what he was planning to do when she stepped closer. 

Ghost leaned in to her hand and she shot a look of triumph at Jon. “He took me for a fright is all,” Dany reasoned, smiling as her hands went up to stroke his soft fur. “He is very quiet,” she commented.

“Hence the name. 

She grit her teeth. “You owe him an apology,” her eyes flittered to Jon who parted his lips with furrowed his brows. “You made him sad. It was my fault, truly,” she pouted her apologies towards Ghost and waited for Jon to say his.

“Aye,” Jon conceded.

With one last pat on the head, she nodded at Jon and his familiar, and then made her way towards Tyrion with an awkward smile.

“My apologies if I gave you all a scare, I was taken aback by his size,” Dany waved backwards.

Tyrion smirked and no doubt it was from a scandalous thought at which she rolled her eyes, entirely forgetting about her mission to send a raven.

 

 

***

 

 

They underestimated the resentment of the northern people. That was what Arya had whispered to her brother.

 

 

***

 

 

They did their best to handle discord of the townsfolk that followed the news of Jaime Lannister’s interrogation. Missandei and Lord Tyrion worked alongside Ser Davos as Jon and Sansa began to move civilians into Winter’s Town as planned.

Solidarity was what they needed.

 

 

 

***

 

Something had not been right, Grey Worm had whispered to the Queen after she noticed him and Jon discreetly making troubled expressions towards each other in the Great Hall.

It was too quiet after Podrick had been injured during training, right before Sansa and the rest of their advisers had been set to leave to Winter’s Town. It was not lost to Daenerys that Lady Sansa’s brow had creased with distress. Though she was not sure if it was due to the less familiar protection she would be receiving for the day or _something else_.

Missandei had given her a knowing look when the Stark girl had called for a moment to check upon Ser Payne.

Dany turned to Jon who subtly placed a palm on her lower back, nodding that he noticed what she did as well.

“I am sure it will be fine,” Missandei spoke, halting Jon’s sister but motioning for her to take her time, ignoring Dany’s look of bewilderment.

Lady Stark had insisted she would take naught but a moment, however, Missandei beckoned toward Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion and the guards. “You may meet us if it truly nothing to worry about.”

It was the most suspicious coincidence that the day the king’s sister had refrained from going into town was the day the queen’s advisors were delivered to Winterfell’s courtyard in chains by three unknown assailants by late afternoon. 

Ser Davos had been unharmed but subdued, Tyrion had a poignant purple bruise blossoming on his left cheek with his hands cuffed, and Missandei’s thick cloak hung off her shoulders where it could be seen that the garments had been violently tugged as her arms were restrained.

They were warned as soon as Jon touched the pommel of his sword that the woods surrounding Winterfell were filled with men waiting to deliver a command to take the foreign army. That her advisors would be murdered on spot.

They were not sure how many, _or_ how it could have slipped past Jon’s lookouts, which is distinctly when it dawned on them that there were none. _It had been too quiet._

Dany knew Jon wanted the traitors dead, and he knew his guards were surrounding the upper walkways to shoot them down, to scout them out but there was a haunting warning on what the execution might cause and it was not a risk that she wished to take. 

They had her armies blocked. And they had been ordered to stand down.

“It would be a slaughter,” she had hissed at Jon.

Dany had not been certain what harboring and then pardoning the Lannister would do, but looking at her cuffed friends, realization dawned on her.

There was a blur of movement for as soon as Grey Worm saw Missandei, his spear was pointed, “Khaleesi.” The word slipped from between his teeth and he had muttered something in Valyrian to which she responded swiftly, holding her hand up to him and Qhono, who had been behind her.

There were no guards which meant that Jon’s men, along with the eight Dothraki that were with her advisors were murdered, which also meant that this had been planned and that she was right from the beginning when she had told the small council that allowing her people to leave the castle was a naive idea. 

Dany had stated for Lord Tyrion to just allow Lady Sansa to deal with northerners; let northerners deal with northerners until they were ready to submit. However, their advisors understood that the northern folk were stubborn, so the response was unanimous: the more they appeared divided, the worse it would get.

 After the unknown figure to the left released Ser Davos, her feet were moving before she could comprehend Jon trying to pull her back. She shook him off knowing that he had started rubbing off on her a little too much.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion called to her, shaking his head, attempting to get her to turn back around before the man gripped at her advisor’s mouth.

She had considered it _very briefly_ until she saw part of Missandei’s dress ripped. 

“Walk to the King,” Dany commanded. “Her first,” she said to the other unknown man, taking small steps forward, ignoring everything around her except the curly-haired woman and her captor.

Both her and the man in the middle holding Lord Tyrion stared at each other for what felt like hours until him and the other released her people. Daenerys pulled Missandei to her, whispering for her to run to Grey Worm.

One of the traitors yanked Daenerys forward, forcing her to lose her balance. Steadying herself after stumbling, she rolled her eyes at the horrific gasps that echoed from the noblemen and women filtering out from the Great Hall.

Jon had said something that she had purposely blocked out. Being restrained and taken was another moon in another country, _familiar_ and unsurprising.

“We just want you to leave, it’s not good when Targaryen’s are north. We can’t let you bring those savages here.”

If the traitor had not jerked her, threatened to kill her soldiers, murdered her guards, called her men savages, and taken her and Jon’s advisors, she would have felt sad for the fear in his voice, but he had, so pity was not even worth her time. She was angry, and she was anxious enough to close her eyes and take a deep breath as the man bound her.

Noise had died from her ears as she focused on the cold metal clasping on her wrists. When they latched shut, she swallowed, flexing her fingers, wishing for a home that never existed, only hearing a horrified scream in the distance.

And then a screech.

_Drogon?_

Dany opened her eyes to see Rhaegal, who had grown significantly in size, perched on one of the castle walls closest to the Great Hall. He let out a furious cry.

Everyone besides Jon Snow looked afraid, even Arya Stark.

Her tether was numb, but her son was before her eyes with a heartbeat she swore she could hear 

Water threatened to spill past her lashes as Rhaegal’s wings folded in, waiting for a command and basking in the fear emitting from the assembled people.

Jon took the chance to step away from his sister and move toward the men who were mumbling something unintelligent amongst themselves until one yanked Dany’s arm back.

Jon froze, seething, and Rhaegal roared.

_“I just wish to help.”_

Rhaegal’s cries and wing flapping drowned out all noise leaving nothing but Dany’s skin to feel the heat of the steam streaming from her largest son who she _knew_ had landed outside the gates by the vibrations on the ground.

His neck craned into the courtyard. Dany didn’t even look to the enormous amber eyes that belonged to Drogon, awaiting her command, only into Jon’s dark ones, mouthing her deepest regrets before uttering the word she had not spoken since High Garden.

She allowed the heat to engulf her, letting the warmth swarm her body. Her clothing burned to ash and metal melted down her arms as she moved through the flames, relishing in the screams of her captors and cringing at the others she heard through the fire.

 

 

-

 

Jon was not sure who held him back, who held him up.

His throat collapsed before he could scream, his head becoming a dizzy abyss, vision blurry through his view of fire, _fire in the court yard, fire in the trees surrounding Winterfell._

The dark wings drew a great shadow above his home and while Jon attempted to conjure up anger at the beast, he simply could not. His feet swayed beneath him as his voice betrayed him.

_“Jon.”_

He blinked through the haze in his eyes, alarmed at the gasps of the people behind him, watching the fire move, swaying even in the absence of wind, raging in the frigid air.

His sisters swallowed thickly behind him, frantically calling his name as a figure moved through the blaze.

Jon wished he could describe what he saw but he could not. There were no words in his vocabulary to express how her body moved with shameless abandonment. Her eyes were sharp and steady with promise that emptied all that consumed his heart, making it heavy with nothing but belief in her.

Wonder was in his eyes and he couldn’t even begin to ask how, as cloth fell to ash at her feet, her true form bare to his people.

Decades could have passed watching her, his feet glued to the ground, unable to comprehend.

_She was truly a god._

A breath escaped him as he watched every Dothraki soldier left chant her titles in their tongue, and Grey Worm take a knee beside Missandei who cloaked herself in the commander’s fur, holding her head high with pride in likeness to the Hand of the Queen.

When Jon turned his head back with comfort that everyone else saw what he was, she was covered, being led by a Ser Jorah Mormont who had not been there moments ago. Reality slammed back to him.

“There was a winged creature flying over town,” Missandei spoke between shivering teeth, abruptly, as Dany neared.

The queen motioned towards her sons.

Missandei shook her head, her features lowering. “White-colored,” the girl mumbled.

While Daenerys halted, stern eyebrows falling and breath hitching, Jon closed his eyes and prayed.

“It was early, we believe that is what caused this,” Tyrion stated, motioning towards the burning bodies, and carriages aflame.

“This was planned,” both Arya and Dany said at the same time, though Arya seemed to be coming to a realization that the queen had already deduced.

“I am informed that my army is being detained at the Twins,” she moved her head towards Jon, motioning towards her sword and shield.

While everyone else could have misconstrued the moment as one of either passion or threat, it was neither. The queen looked from her biggest son to her lover, yearning for forgiveness, yearning for council.

Jon looked down as she whispered to him, “What would you do?”

He turned away. It was not a question meant to be answered.

Dany was looking for understanding. _Support_. But Jon was selfish, and this had nothing to do with her army. Daenerys’ determination was fueled by the flames of her dead son.

“When I return, if my army has not left the Twins, I will burn down anything that is stopping them.”

She began to retreat, and Jon knew what she was going to do, or at least try. And he knew she would fail. 

Quickly grabbing her wrists, he cautioned her with absolute terror in his eyes, silently pleading with her to not leave.

If she did not return, her death would haunt him until the end of his days.

“Was there anyone riding him?” she questioned her two advisors, eyes not leaving his heavy ones.

Tyrion attempted to prohibit her from departing as Jon stroked the inside of her wrists with his thumb.

Missandei shook her head, answering her queen with choked words.

“I am not asking for your permission, my lord,” she rebutted, finally turning away to glance at Tyrion before looking deliberately at Jon again.

He released her arm, dropping his hands from her touch as if his palms had been scorched by the heat radiating off her body, forgetting who he was, who she was, and where they were.

Jon stared at the ground, numb to the conversation.

“How long ago was he seen and headed in which direction?” Daenerys worked hastily to make sure the cloak that she was given was secured.

“The first sighting was early, my queen,” Tyrion muttered through gritted teeth, stepping forward.

“And the second?” Daenerys could see him clenching his jaw through his trimmed beard.

“Before we were taken,” he managed out. “A little over an hour ago, most likely.”

An hour was a lot of travel time for the queen’s dragons and she was told that he was going in the direction of Moat Cailin.

Drogon had disappeared behind the thick stone walls, and Dany nodded towards Jon and her advisors before rushing towards the steps leading to the walkway.

She never bothered to look back before jumping from the ledge, allowing her dragon to take her.

There were murmurs and his sisters were saying something, but all Jon could process was that she was gone, disappearing into the whites of the sky on her largest son.

She had left. _Alone_. To fight a wight dragon, with her injured dragon, _both of them being her sons._

It could be deemed brave. And answering her silent question of would he do it, yes, he would have. Without hesitation.

“Jon.” It was Sam this time.

Calling for silence, Jon glanced at Missandei and asked if she was harmed as he peeked from the corner of his eyes at his people putting out fires before they spread.

Shaking his head, he told Sansa to call for assistance, to get the queen’s most trusted advisor proper attire before observing Tyrion who looked ill.

The Imp nodded at him nonetheless.

Jon slowly walked over to the ashes near the dulling flames before approaching one of the carriages not ablaze, to take a sack, motioning for Ser Jorah. As the olde man began to march towards him, Jon knelt to pick up some of the remains. He looked to his people full of shame before shaking his head once more, knotting the bag.

Jon passed it to the northern bear with a clenched jaw and dark eyes.

“Inform the men that have refused Queen Daenerys’ army that this is what awaits them if they do not do as commanded.”

“Jon.” Sam and Sansa wheezed through the smoke as Ser Jorah nodded, cautiously, silently questioning him if he was absolutely certain.

He was.

“Everyone can go back inside,” he motioned towards the doors, stating that it was not a request but an order.

“I’ll be a moment, there is a great few things to discuss now.”

 

**_Fool him once, shame on him._ **

_Fool him twice, shame on thee._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cringes at chapter 4. you ever just wonder how people let you get away with posting shit lmfao i was a disaster but you a real one if you are still with me!
> 
> Special thanks to Aliciutza and NoOrdinaryLines who despite my shit posts, still love my story and keep me going. Also thanks to ship1013 who has y'alls back TRULYYYYYY because I think most of my comments at this point belong you <3 and I love and appreciate them more than you know.
> 
> Thank you for the lovely comments regarding the last chapter. I did struggle and am so happy y'all did enjoy it so much. I had some minor difficulties in this bit, if you ended up confused, more will be explained next chapter. Speaking of which....
> 
>  
> 
> ".....He rushed towards her and folded her into his arms. She almost melted into the crevice of his neck that smelled of firewood and leather, and doubled over in with comfort with the flex of his rigid muscles and flat palms against her back.
> 
> Trailing a hand up to cup her head to his, he uttered nothing for a long while, just holding her. 
> 
> “I am still entirely displeased with you, do not let this confuse you,” his voice was low and guttural, oozing of the displeasure and temperateness that was so undeniably Jon Snow...."
> 
>  
> 
> You may stalk me on my tumblr (i-am-small.tumblr.com). I have to respond to comments tmr and read this over once more but I promised this weekend so, here y'all go! If you are the lucky few who read this before monday afternoon, you get to witness this with no formatting and maybe a typo or 12! <3 cheers beloved lmfaooo So, yeah, leave nice comments. Tell me if you have a favorite part and what it is! Quote it if you'd like! I love when you guys like my stuff. If you don't have nice things to say, you can just close the tab. We like friendly people! Supportive people! Constructive people! Helpful people! It takes a lot to write. I gotta finish this story y'all. My friends gonna come for me if I don't lmfao so be nice to me, I control the amount of smut y'all will read in this bitch ;) Love y'all <3 see youssss soon!


	11. Our Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon did not ask politely to enter, he just pressed it further open as she stepped to the side slightly, frowning at his expression.
> 
> He was upset. Very upset.
> 
> She turned from him as he shut the door, not wanting to hear it from him either.
> 
> No words were spoken as she unbraided her hair to let it dry completely, but she grew substantially annoyed by his silence as she turned around. His expression was one of regret.
> 
> To her surprise, he moved towards her and enfolded her into his arms. She almost melted into the crevice of his neck that smelled of firewood and leather, and doubled over in with comfort with the flex of his rigid muscles and flat palms against her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always beta'ed by Iane-Casey, my love <3 I thank her very much. 
> 
> Pardon my mistakes but I wanted to leave you guys with SOMETHING before the year ended. It is not too long I am afraid but it's something. I quite enjoyed my little otp moment at the end there, hope you will too <3

**Part III** :  _death before dishonor – the calm before the storm._  

 

**Previously...**

 

> Jon was not sure who held him back, who held him up.
> 
> His throat collapsed before he could scream, his head becoming a dizzy abyss, vision blurry through his view of fire,  _fire in the court yard, fire in the trees surrounding Winterfell._
> 
> The dark wings drew a great shadow above his home and while Jon attempted to conjure up anger at the beast, he simply could not. His feet swayed beneath him as his voice betrayed him.
> 
> _“Jon.”_
> 
> He blinked through the haze in his eyes, alarmed at the gasps of the people behind him, watching the fire move, swaying even in the absence of wind, raging in the frigid air.
> 
> His sisters swallowed thickly behind him, frantically calling his name as a figure moved through the blaze.
> 
> Jon wished he could describe what he saw but he could not. There were no words in his vocabulary to express how her body moved with shameless abandonment. Her eyes were sharp and steady with promise that emptied all that consumed his heart, making it heavy with nothing but belief in her.
> 
> Wonder was in his eyes and he couldn’t even begin to ask how, as cloth fell to ash at her feet, her true form bare to his people.
> 
> Decades could have passed watching her, his feet glued to the ground, unable to comprehend.
> 
> _She was truly a god._
> 
> A breath escaped him as he watched every Dothraki soldier left chant her titles in their tongue, and Grey Worm take a knee beside Missandei who cloaked herself in the commander’s fur, holding her head high with pride in likeness to the Hand of the Queen.
> 
> When Jon turned his head back with comfort that everyone else saw what he was, she was covered, being led by a Ser Jorah Mormont who had not been there moments ago. Reality slammed back to him.
> 
> “There was a winged creature flying over town,” Missandei spoke between shivering teeth, abruptly, as Dany neared.
> 
> The queen motioned towards her sons.
> 
> Missandei shook her head, her features lowering. “White-colored,” the girl mumbled.
> 
> While Daenerys halted, stern eyebrows falling and breath hitching, Jon closed his eyes and prayed.
> 
> “It was early, we believe that is what caused this,” Tyrion stated, motioning towards the burning bodies, and carriages aflame.
> 
> “This was planned,” both Arya and Dany said at the same time, though Arya seemed to be coming to a realization that the queen had already deduced.
> 
> “I am informed that my army is being detained at the Twins,” she moved her head towards Jon, motioning towards her sword and shield.
> 
> While everyone else could have misconstrued the moment as one of either passion or threat, it was neither. The queen looked from her biggest son to her lover, yearning for forgiveness, yearning for council.
> 
> Jon looked down as she whispered to him, “What would you do?”
> 
> He turned away. It was not a question meant to be answered.
> 
> Dany was looking for understanding.  _Support_. But Jon was selfish, and this had nothing to do with her army. Daenerys’ determination was fueled by the flames of her dead son.
> 
> “When I return, if my army has not left the Twins, I will burn down anything that is stopping them.”
> 
> She began to retreat, and Jon knew what she was going to do, or at least try. And he knew she would fail. 
> 
> Quickly grabbing her wrists, he cautioned her with absolute terror in his eyes, silently pleading with her to not leave.
> 
> If she did not return, her death would haunt him until the end of his days.
> 
> “Was there anyone riding him?” she questioned her two advisors, eyes not leaving his heavy ones.
> 
> Tyrion attempted to prohibit her from departing as Jon stroked the inside of her wrists with his thumb.
> 
> Missandei shook her head, answering her queen with choked words.
> 
> “I am not asking for your permission, my lord,” she rebutted, finally turning away to glance at Tyrion before looking deliberately at Jon again.
> 
> He released her arm, dropping his hands from her touch as if his palms had been scorched by the heat radiating off her body, forgetting who he was, who she was, and where they were.
> 
> Jon stared at the ground, numb to the conversation.
> 
> “How long ago was he seen and headed in which direction?” Daenerys worked hastily to make sure the cloak that she was given was secured.
> 
> “The first sighting was early, my queen,” Tyrion muttered through gritted teeth, stepping forward.
> 
> “And the second?” Daenerys could see him clenching his jaw through his trimmed beard.
> 
> “Before we were taken,” he managed out. “A little over an hour ago, most likely.”
> 
> An hour was a lot of travel time for the queen’s dragons and she was told that he was going in the direction of Moat Cailin.
> 
> Drogon had disappeared behind the thick stone walls, and Dany nodded towards Jon and her advisors before rushing towards the steps leading to the walkway.
> 
> She never bothered to look back before jumping from the ledge, allowing her dragon to take her.
> 
> There were murmurs and his sisters were saying something, but all Jon could process was that she was gone, disappearing into the whites of the sky on her largest son.
> 
> She had left.  _Alone_. To fight a wight dragon, with her injured dragon,  _both of them being her sons._
> 
> It could be deemed brave. And answering her silent question of would he do it, yes, he would have. Without hesitation.
> 
> “Jon.” It was Sam this time.
> 
> Calling for silence, Jon glanced at Missandei and asked if she was harmed as he peeked from the corner of his eyes at his people putting out fires before they spread.
> 
> Shaking his head, he told Sansa to call for assistance, to get the queen’s most trusted advisor proper attire before observing Tyrion who looked ill.
> 
> The Imp nodded at him nonetheless.
> 
> Jon slowly walked over to the ashes near the dulling flames before approaching one of the carriages not ablaze, to take a sack, motioning for Ser Jorah. As the olde man began to march towards him, Jon knelt to pick up some of the remains. He looked to his people full of shame before shaking his head once more, knotting the bag.
> 
> Jon passed it to the northern bear with a clenched jaw and dark eyes.
> 
> “Inform the men that have refused Queen Daenerys’ army that this is what awaits them if they do not do as commanded.”
> 
> “Jon.” Sam and Sansa wheezed through the smoke as Ser Jorah nodded, cautiously, silently questioning him if he was absolutely certain.
> 
> He was.
> 
> “Everyone can go back inside,” he motioned towards the doors, stating that it was not a request but an order.
> 
> “I’ll be a moment, there is a great few things to discuss now.”
> 
>  
> 
> **_Fool him once, shame on him._ **
> 
> _Fool him twice, shame on thee._

 

* * *

 

 

How did pain enter and leave the body?

Some time ago, Jon would have thought only of the Great War, swords, arrows, and betrayal. Now he only thought of her as she had mounted her dragon and disappeared into the vast grey sky.

She had vanished. Daenerys had disappeared with the utterance of one question.

“What would you do?”

_What would Jon Snow do?_

The answer was easy: fight to survive. Perhaps die in the process. _Again_.

But always fight.

Along with the Queen left Jon’s sanity as well.

His mind had become a dark abyss of unfiltered anger and resolution.

 

 

I

 

On the first day of Dany’s absence, Jon’s imperturbable demeanor began to surface, and he dismissed it as dissatisfaction in his bannermen.

He held a council at sunrise with the lords and gave them a choice: Stay in the north and fight with Queen Daenerys’ army or leave and never come back.

 

 

II

 

On the second day, Jon commanded Tormund and Beric to return to the Wall to begin moving south any free folk women and children unprepared for battle.

During the farewells, a hooded figure approached the gate.

Jon dismissed the bells and handled it himself.

_Bronn_.

Ser Bronn of Blackwater with eight Lannister men. 

It was _exactly_ what Jon _wanted_ right after a few noblemen had huffed out and left, returning to their castles with no acknowledgment of his orders.

“There are more but I left them behind the horselords in the Riverlands,” Bronn spoke clearly, standing relaxed in the company of guards and his and the Queen’s advisors.

“Did my sister send you?” It was Jaime Lannister who asked.

“Fuck her, first and foremost,” Bronn stated. “Fuck _you_ , secondly,” he pointed at the Kingslayer. “Where’s the white queen, I am here to speak to her not you,” he spat at the big lion.

“You have me instead,” Jon said smoothly, ignoring the burning in his chest at the mention of Daenerys.

“Pretty but not nearly as-” the man stopped short, seeing Lord Tyrion shake his head. 

With little knowledge of the situation he walked into, Ser Bronn of Blackwater held outstanding composure, but Jon still noticed his eyes flicker to every man with a sword in the room.

“Answer his question,” Jon ordered.

“No,” Bronn stated in response to the enquiry of Cersei Lannister sending him. “Came here after that fuck- Ser Jaime departed.”

Jon waited for his explanation, but the man was of little words when he realized his predicament, so Jon motioned for him to continue.

“I don’t like her,” Bronn admitted with hand gestures and a look of displeasure. “She’s a fucking cunt.”

Arya snorted as Ser Bronn apologized, though it was not even remotely remorseful.

“Don’t want to die, and some of the Lannister men, they aren’t- they are just men who want to… live,” Bronn shrugged.

Jon knew men like Ser Bronn. His loyalty was always going to be with the highest bidder, the highest rank, with who he thought would prevail.

His best bet would be to take a boat to Dorne or Essos. Jon told him as much.

“Heard the Dragon Queen had men over there, too, and I’m not all that wanted in Dorne anymore,” the man confessed, rubbing his neck.

“We don’t really like you all that much here either,” Arya eyed him up and down.

“And who are _you_?” Bronn squinted.

Jon was not sure if it was an attack on Arya’s size or him trying to remember if she was at the Pit.

“Someone that can kill you or have you killed, so shut the fuck up,” the Kingslayer warned.

Jon tossed a look in Arya’s direction in time to see a bit of surprise on her face, but her collected façade slammed back into place.

Turning to Sansa, to ask how much room in the castle they had to spare, Jon understood the hostility in the north and the damage it could bring, _but they simply needed more men._

Jon allowed them to stay, leaving Lord Tyrion to find a way for the remaining Lannister army to be housed safely when they arrived, before sweeping to find Sam.

 

III

 

By the third day, Jon had lost it.

He had yelled at Sansa so loud Arya had been startled.

Jon couldn’t process how people around him were not fathoming that the reason why he left was to retrieve help. He just could not understand how his people were not embarrassed at themselves.

When Sansa attempted to reason with him, he snapped at her. 

“Don’t corner me.” He was still a wild wolf.

“They regret giving you the crown, Jon.”

He thought the statement would have hurt more, coming from her.

“It’s all they talk about,” Arya spoke lowly, leaning against the closed door with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

“Do they want it back?” Jon strode to the desk in the study. “No,” he answered for both his sisters.

“Do _you_ want it?” he eyed Sansa who looked at him with contempt.

“No,” he responded, once again, answering for his sibling. “But the only thing that stands between the north and certain death is me and-” Jon’s voice caught.

He had tried once more to say Dany’s name, but he couldn’t, so all he uttered was, “I do not do well with threats and ultimatums.”

Jon had asked his men if they desired death and they obviously denied, but they spoke of the past, the old days.

An old time. An old world.

_If that is what they wanted, they could have it and they could die in it._

 

 

IV

 

 

Jon had finally made time to see Sam.

As always, the pudgy man was in the library with little Sam sleeping on a chair.

_The kid must be worn_ , Jon supposed. The child was not the only one.

Jon had seen the boy playing with the dirty snow in the courtyard earlier while Gilly argued with a guard about granting one of Dany’s ladies maids access to the kitchen.

Jhemmefi, Jon believed. Both the wildling and the Dothraki girl looked ready to commit murder before he stepped in.

Dany had been right, the young girl was sweet on him but refused eye contact, only stating that he mustn’t look so glum, _“Her Grace will return.”_

“Perfect.” Sam clapped Jon on the back, disrupting his thoughts.

He flinched at the contact, shying away from Sam’s comforting gesture. Sam being Sam, did not notice.

“I have some good news,” his best mate announced. “Well,” he paused, “I don’t know if it is _good_ , good, but something to think about.”

Jon furrowed his eye brows while Sam opened up a book, sliding it towards Jon.

“I read about this on the way here. I do not know if it is possible, but I can’t seem to put it down.”

It was a book on Valyrian steel. _Well_ , Old Valyrian weaponry.

“It is a lost skill,” Jon stated, blankly.

“Is it?” Sam questioned, “Or has no one else actually looked for it?”

His mate rolled his shoulders, lighting another candle. 

“Think about it, the only use of Valyrian steel was by Tobho Mott,” Sam glanced at a piece of parchment to see if he got the name right.

“In King’s Landing,” Sam examined. “A keen eye was kept on him by the royal advisors, which is probably why your father knew about him and Gendry Waters-”

“Look, what we know is that these books were locked up, and that there is a lot of money in Valyrian steel. Having a sword made with that material is highly valuable-”

“Because it is a _lost_ practice and _material_ ,” Jon interrupted, frustrated.

“Maybe it _isn’t_ , Jon. Maybe the knowledge wasn’t lost, and it was just being controlled, because if people knew how to make it, the items would be less valuable OR, perhaps it couldn’t be made because something was _missing_ ,” Sam hissed at him quietly, almost as if he was waiting for Jon to pick up what he was saying.

“Something that, perhaps, didn’t exist for a long time...”

Jon snatched the book from him, “You’re giving me a headache.”

Gathering up the papers Sam had marked up for him, he took the book and started for the door before his friend had completed voicing his written thoughts.

Sam had an idea, but not one he wanted to say aloud. He hoped Jon would have gotten what he was attempting to disclose, but he didn’t. His friend was already out the door of the library before he could write it on parchment for the man to comprehend.

“Get that boy to bed, Sam, before Gilly kills you,” Jon had called from the corridor outside of the massive doors.

 

 

V

 

For the next three days, everyone had been walking on eggshells around each other.

The Queen had not returned.

It had been a week since she left.

Jon had taken refuge by the heart tree, doing what he did not do often; praying.

He prayed for the north, prayed for his family and friends, and he prayed for Daenerys.

Sunrise had passed when he finished, and Jon had not bothered to gather his men for training.

Deciding to give them a break, he wandered until he found himself outside the gates of Winterfell.

Snow began to fall again. 

Sitting with his back against the stone wall encompassing the castle, Jon waited. For how long? He didn’t care.

The cold began to swarm him, and he breathed in the icy air as if it was the only thing that could fill the hollowness in his stomach. Before he knew it, his eyes started to lower, and his head started to feel muddled, clouded, then, high and lifted.

Jon thought he might have been poisoned or his breakfast had been spiked.

Feeling for the ground, his eyes jutting open, he saw two giant irises observing him.

Concealing his fear, Jon reached out, showing that he meant no harm, but the dragon just ignored him, turning his face.

Jon would have felt offended if the great animal had not just dropped to the ground completely, vibrations sending echoes through the trees, into a position Jon would consider to be how he slept.

Moving to stand, Jon huffed out a laugh of incredulity, walking around to see the dragon’s expression of indifference. _So much like his mother._ It actually comforted him.

Perhaps, if something was truly wrong with Dany, Rhaegal would know and be unnerved.

With the information given to him through their advisors, Jon had put together that the dragons would know when something was wrong, for the green one had gone wild with disquiet around the same time him and Daenerys had been attacked on the way to Winterfell. 

The dragon turned his head upward, extending its large and jagged neck so close to Jon that he could feel the heat wafting off of him.

Jon sat back down.

_Fire and blood._ The dragons were nothing but fire and blood.

 

 

VIII

 

 

Jon went to see Gendry one afternoon, after training, an idea coming to him in persistent nudges, thanks to Sam. 

“What if Valyrian steel could be made?” Jon mused, walking around the forge. 

“What?” Gendry questioned in disbelief.

“What if?”

“What if I am a cross between a weasel and a goat, standing ten feet in height with the preferred name, Gregg?” Gendry shot back, quenching a sword.

“Now I see why my sister likes you.”

Gendry dropped the weapon.

“She doesn’t ignore people she dislikes, she antagonizes them,” Jon started, “I am not stupid.”

Gendry scrambled to pick up the blade, knowing he would probably have to start over if, Jon did not kill him first.

“You didn’t tell me you knew her, this entire time, you did not _once_ utter her name.”

“Thought her to be dead,” Gendry glanced at Jon from beneath his lashes, head bowed, honesty in his eyes.

“She is not,” Jon ran his fingers across the stone walls he was so familiar with from his childhood of hiding by the fires, desiring to be good at something, even if it was smithing. _It was a good trade._

“I wonder what you did to piss her off though,” Jon turned back around. “I don’t suppose I’ll find out anytime soon, however, seeing as neither of you wish to say or talk about each other.”

“A person of my ranking doesn’t dare speak of nobility.”

Jon smiled, “I was of the same rank, same position as you, and this is not a test, Gendry.”

“If I wanted you to feel threatened, you would know,” he rolled his eyes.

_“Valyrian steel is unlike any other steel,”_ Gendry started hesitantly, before spinning back to his work, turning from Jon’s eyes, _Arya’s eyes_. “It has to be cut and mixed with something- something unalike-”

“Old Valyria- it is a land of magic- of molten-”

“You think it’s made with magic?” Gendry’s skepticism entered his voice again.

“Perhaps, but what if the base is not regular metal either?”

“Like obsidian?” the smith questioned.

It was similar to Valyrian steel, light in weight, sharp, and somehow could do inexplicable things, like kill white walkers.

 

 

IX

 

Jon left training up to Lady Brienne and Arya, allowing them to intimidate his men.

He instead decided to train with Grey Worm who proved to be formidable. Unlike Tormund, he fought morally and fairly, but he did not relent.

Jon cut him deeply, and had not known until he was on his way to the kitchens one evening, and heard the soldier and Lady Missandei arguing.

Jon rounded the corner as if he had not caught a thing- which was true since they were speaking in High Valyrian.

“Your Grace,” they both bowed, immediately noticing him.

That was when Jon spotted Grey Worm’s cape in Missandei’s arm and some bandages across is shoulder.

“How did that happen?” Jon inquired.

When Missandei refused eye contact, he heard Grey Worm speak, “Sparring, your grace.”

“With me?”

The unsullied soldier hesitated but nodded.

“My apologies,” Jon took a step forward, but Grey Worm shook his head vehemently.

“You fight strong,” his thick accent was layered with pride. “No apology.”

“Perhaps I can offer Lady Missandei my regrets,” Jon turned towards the Queen’s most trusted advisor.

“No, I am not upset with _you_ , Your Grace.” Jon cringed inwardly for Grey Worm, recognizing the tone.

“He did not wish to go to a Maester, did he?”

“No,” she responded immediately, shrinking back, looking out of the side of her eyes to see Grey Worm rolling his.

“Is that a common thing amongst men, to not want to go to a healer?” she questioned Jon.

“Aye, it seems,” he responded, shrugging, releasing a light chuckle.

“Do you men not understand that wounds can become infected, and there is such a thing as too much blood loss and-”

“That we can die from it?” Jon finished for her. “Aye,” he confirmed.

“Next time let me know,” Jon tossed at towards Grey Worm, “That way we could put something on that sooner.”

“Did you put something on swollen eye?” the soldier inquired.

Jon was not sure if it was meant to be a mocking retort, but he found his own lips tugging into a large grin and both of them laughed as Missandei shook her head, pushing the commander’s cloak into his chest.

 

 

XI

 

On the eleventh day, Ser Jorah arrived with the Hound, and Daenerys’ army.

It was an odd day, for the Dothraki hoard were undoubtedly intimidating.

However, Qhono led the horselords per Lord Tyrion’s request, and Sure Spear came out uncloaked, looking for orders from Grey Worm.

The Lord Hand searched the masses for one man in particular, and did not stop until he saw a bald head.

“Your Majesty,” Varys turned to Jon respectfully, “Her Grace is-”

The Spider peered around.

“Not here,” Jon clipped, but nodded his head respectfully before excusing himself to attempt at communication with the foreign army.

“Well, then, where is she?” Varys unfolded his arms from his long sleeves, not excited about the snowfall that had delayed their riding and most likely froze them beyond belief.

“I do not know,” Tyrion hissed, signaling for him to go about their formalities, walking towards the Great Hall.

Lady Stark had been the first he greeted. “Lovely to see you again, my lady,” Varys charmed before turning to Lady Arya.

The Spider nodded politely while the young girl narrowed her eyes before walking off.

Lady Sansa relinquished a humble apology before speedily going after her sister.

“Still delightful, the she-wolf is,” Varys commented while Tyrion pulled him to a private room.

Waiting until he closed the door, the Spider turned around with a perturbed expression, “Tell me, how do you mean, ‘not here’?”

“Gone,” Tyrion motioned with his hands. “Vanished into the sky on top of Drogon, gone after her resurrected wight dragon,” Tyrion finished.

“Excuse me?”

“No, I am not having a laugh,” Tyrion searched for wine, wondering where everyone was hiding the fucking drinks. “I really wish I was.”

“Have _you_ heard anything?” Tyrion turned to Varys who untucked his hands once more. He shook his head in response.

“Perhaps, we should send a raven to Meeren,” the Spider offered.

“The weather is shit.” Tyrion had remembered that option when it was too late, and the snow began falling.

It was the first thing on his obscenely long list of things to do, however.

“Do you want to explain how-”

With the way the small lord was rubbing his head, the answer was _no_. Varys would find out soon enough, there was no need to explain.

“Word is trickling through the towns that the King in the North has been entirely corrupted by our Queen’s foreign cunt, and that sense needs to be knocked into him,” Tyrion sat in a chair, waiting for a positive comment from the spy.

Varys had none.

“Jon Snow is losing it,” Tyrion started. “He cannot say her name, never mentions her, blanks out when someone else does.”

“He loves her,” Varys remarked, completely aware.

“Yes.”

“Does the Queen know?” Varys inquired, untying his cloak, beginning to snoop around what he found to be the guest tower’s work room.

“She is not stupid.”

“Does _he_ know?”

Tyrion smiled sarcastically in response.

 

 

XII

 

After watching Jon spar with Grey Worm, Arya headed to the forge.

Gendry had been the smith Sansa had been talking about, the man that arrived with Ser Davos.

Arya had tried not spare him a thought, but failed. She attempted to distract herself with tracking down rebels and marking which noblemen were disobeying her brother.

For the last week and a half she overworked, trained excessively, and was overly mean to Ser Podrick and Bran. Podrick, because he allowed her to let out her frustrations, and Bran because he was an arse.

There was a quiet agreement amongst advisors that if Podrick had not been hurt, if Sansa had indeed left, this would not have happened. The people feared Jon’s impulsiveness when it came to his siblings.

The story of how the White Wolf almost lost the Battle of the Bastards, how it almost ended before it _truly_ started, will always be told.

Training with Ser Payne, however, much to her sister’s wariness, told her the man’s injuries were a diversion. A _trained_ soldier _sparring_ knows how not break another man’s arm.

She had misinterpreted the conversation about the movements at the Twins, dismissing it as curiosity as to what happened to the Freys. She had neither thought nor heard that northerners would attempt to block off the passage.

Arya had not told Jon about the Freys, _not yet_ , for he was too wound up. She did not even think to bring up the townsfolk she had killed, not offering a fair trial for they spoke of treason and the murder of her brother.

She had simply left their bodies to decompose.

_No_ , she might never tell him about that.

“You aren’t light on your feet today,” Gendry noted, his back turned from her.

Her anger with everything had been festering worse than even her brother’s, so when the smith turned around to meet her gaze, she punched him.

_“Seven fucking hells.”_

Her hand hurt, so she knew she got him good.

When Arya began to walk away, a hand clasped around her wrist.

Snatching it from him, she snapped, “You can get beheaded for that, you know.”

“My apologies, _princess_ ,” he grounded out, rubbing his jaw.

It would bruise, she thought. _Southerners are soft_.

“I am not Ser Payne or Jaime Lannister, I won’t let you bully me.”

“They are starting to fight back, and I will not let some spineless southerner guard my sister. Podrick needs to learn.” Cast or no cast, Podrick still had another hand, unlike the Kingslayer.

“Well I am not your training sack, don’t take your anger out on me,” he spat venomously.

Their eyes finally met.

Gendry wore his heart on his sleeve, all his feelings were in his gaze and the quirk of his mouth. _Looking there was a mistake._

Again, she turned away, needing to get out of the suddenly hot room.

“I’ve been here for moons and that’s all you have to say to me, _princess_?” he shot at her. “I haven’t seen you in years _and that’s it_?”

Something behind her must have fell or perhaps he’d knocked something over in anger. She flinched at the noise, nonetheless.

“I thought you were dead I… I- _really_ , this is how-”

“ _You_ left _me_!” she screamed at him, face warming at her erupting feelings. “You don’t get to talk to me that way.”

Not because he was a bastard or a stupid bull boy with no title. He didn’t get to grab her or yell at her because _he_ had wanted to leave her.

“I was _taken_!” he defended.

“You were going to leave anyway,” she shook her head, inching her back closer to the door, needing something to keep her steady.

“I apologize if I hurt you.” He was being honest.

Arya wasn’t. “No one hurts me anymore.”

“But I won’t apologize for doing what I thought was best for me. And I won’t apologize for making you cross,” he started. “Is that all you came here for? To punch me?”

Honestly, she couldn’t even remember her motive.

Gendry waited for a response, but when one never came, he continued with some advice before turning back to his swords.

“Well, since you’re here, your brother can use some attention. Maybe you both can bond over your misplaced anger.”

Arya wanted to yell and tell him that he had no right to dictate where anyone’s anger should go, or how people should feel, and the ways in which they should be coping, but she did not.

 

 

XIII

 

 

Lord Tyrion fell into step with Sansa and Podrick while she surveyed her home’s grounds, looking for something to distract her from the man whose entire arm was bandaged and strapped in front of his body. Guilt was in Podrick’s entire appearance while responsibility settled in her stomach. The Lord Hand and Arya were not stupid. People were beginning to notice that she cared about things, about _people_.

The scroll in the palms of the Hand of the Queen pulled her from her reverie.

“And that is?”

“Well you sure got nosier, Lady Stark,” the imp looked up in appreciation.

Sansa had always been curious, but now she could afford to show it.

“You inquired about Theon Greyjoy earlier, my lady.”

She had, during a small council meeting. Theon’s name had come up a few times, and she had not known until recently that he did indeed make it to his sister. And then his sister got kidnapped by their uncle, during a battle instigated by Cersei Lannister… All of which was just a bit much for Sansa this week.

“I did, my lord,” Sansa stopped, turning to the man, carefully avoiding Ser Payne’s heavy gaze.

“I am on my way to send a raven to Meereen in hopes that it will get there in a timely fashion, or at all,” Tyrion waved to the darkening sky, signaling snowfall.

“This is written to a Daario Naharis whom I pray will not attack Lord Greyjoy in confusion, but instead, his narcissistic uncle.” The man tugged at his beard with a nervous chuckle.

“Lord Tyrion, why is that you _hope_?” Sansa asked wearily, clasping her hands together as he started leading her to the post.

“Well,” Tyrion started, “Our commander to the east will absolutely know who from the west lands is on foreign soil, it is just a matter of introduction,” he enunciated with his hands. “I would not want Euron Greyjoy to charm-”

“It’s said that he is vile,” Podrick interrupted from her right.

Sansa’s head snapped to Podrick with disbelief at his level of comfort around the Lannister- to interject and speak without stuttering.

“Yes,” Lord Tyrion agreed, easily. “But Daario Naharis is a peculiar man that holds beauty, strength, and survival in high esteem,” he explained to both her and the squire in a tone of fondness for his old friend and former wife, however his voice was just short of troubling. “Euron Greyjoy is both strong and a survivalist. Lord Theon is… He had abandoned his sister who is now with their uncle…”

“What are the chances of that happening?” Sansa inquired with a shortness of breath.

“50/50.”

“Half?” her voice was incredulous.

“I hope this has your blessing to get there in time,” Lord Tyrion smiled somberly, showing Sansa the note.

She knew that the message looked heavily bound because it regarded his concern and enquired on the whereabouts of the Targaryen Queen.

With a nod of his head, he beckoned Podrick, calling out, “Come along, Pod.”

Sansa stiffened. She knew that when Lady Brienne came back Podrick should no longer need to be near her and that it seemed obtrusive and suspicious that the squire was always in her presence. They had discussed it, but she ignored it until the night of the accident.

She nodded at once, after seeing a look of knowing on the Imp’s face.

“I should stay with Lady Sansa-” Podrick started but Sansa cut him off.

“It is fine, Ser Payne, I have a guard,” she waved her hand backwards to whoever had to have been trailing them per Jon’s insistence.

“But I-”

“You should spend some time with your friend…” Sansa motioned towards Tyrion as she stepped back.

The squire was not quick or keen to move, searching her gaze for uncertainty, but Sansa held strong, insisting he leave with his old companion.

“Yes, Milady,” he bowed resolutely, looking back with apprehension as Lord Tyrion pulled him along.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa started again towards… the stables, perhaps, where she was hearing a commotion.

“I am looking for Lady Stark. I was told she would be out here. Not the short one. Red hair. Are you deaf? Are you one of them deaf broads?” Lady Sansa caught Sandor Clegane speaking to a servant who was shaking her head fervently before walking away in fear.

Sansa frowned. She understood the Hound could be frightening but…

“Cunt.”

She cleared her throat from behind him.

“Fuck off.”

“Ser Clegane.”

 

 

XIV

 

 

“You are enjoying this,” the Kingslayer spat from the ground.

“Immensely,” Arya twirled needle with ease. “Though I prefer you on your knees instead of your back.”

“I hate Brienne.”

“You are doing particularly bad today, is my brother’s lack of legs too triggering for you?” she taunted.

Jaime was hyper aware of the boy Stark sitting idly, almost pensively in the courtyard watching him. He did it often.

He remembered the third time he trained with Arya Stark, the boy had finally approached him, rolling to where he had stood on the stairs.

_“I remember.”_

Jaime could have retched. He was certain that he would be beheaded that night.

_“Worry not,” Bran Stark had whispered, “Your secret is safe with me.”_

Jaime had searched his face for mirth, _anything_ , but he was presented with only a vacant stare. Nothing. Literally no emotion pulled on his features.

With his stomach clenching, Jaime had only been able to utter, _“Why?”_

_“Arya would assassinate you. Jon would execute you. Sansa would order your hanging and then ask Queen Daenerys to burn your body, which as you can imagine, would cause her an immense amount of displeasure but she would make an exception to avenge her brother,” Bran’s head had tilted to the side, contemplation prevalent in the purse of his lips. “That, however, would be done after she used you as leverage against your sister.”_

_“All of those end in your death, which would not do anyone here any favours,” he had started again. “You have purpose yet, Ser.”_

_“Why?” Jaime had clenched his teeth, thinking how his death would affect Brienne and incense Cersei. He had been more concerned with the former for the woman had done everything in her ability to accommodate and advocate for him. Her disappointment was what he desired least._

_“I thought I would hate you, but I quite like the fact that you hate yourself every time you see me. I also like that your hand is… missing. It seems there is still justice in the world.”_

“Why?” Jaime thought he whispered, though mostly for himself, but it happened to be the moment Arya started charging in his direction and he was pulled from his recollection.

“Exactly, why?!” Arya said swiftly to Brienne with a wave of her hand. “Why can you not just do this?” she asked Jaime before looking back at the woman, and telling her, “His existence irritates me.”

“He is left handed now, and so are you. I am right handed,” the lady knight lifted her right hand, gesturing to the fact it was very much still attached to her body.

 

 

XV

 

 

Missandei had ran to the king when she saw white hair from the walkway above the courtyard. She hollered for someone to open the gate while Grey Worm ran down to gather his queen.

Daenerys hadn’t been able to walk easily on her own, but refused Grey Worm’s attempts at picking her up, her pride stronger than her pain.

It was now evening and the sun had long since set, supper had been served and all seemed well.

Dany supposed it was, only noticing the Usurper’s illegitimate son and the big man they called the Hound in the room.

Lady Sansa appeared first, out of breath and out of sorts, with Ser Podrick following her, an arm bandaged and his face worried. Arya had been next, then her Lord Hand with Lord Varys in tow.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion breathed out while Jorah and Ser Davos were the next to enter the room. None of them were who she desired to see but still, she bowed, wincing at the pain in her muscles.

She had flown for days, after tracking down her dead son. He was fast, nearly rabid in the eyes and the heat that emitted off him was unalike anything she had ever known but he was not hostile. Just, _lifeless_.

_She could not do it._

He had hardly fought back, avoiding them at every turn.

Foolishly, Dany had attempted to reach for him and that was when she felt him finally snap. A fire blue as the sea had been thrown in their direction, so hot it almost burned _her_.

Drogon had been stunned, but quickly composed himself, ready to attack but she hadn’t allowed him.

_She could not do it._

Her entire body had shook and she’d fled.

Of course, she had not intended to be gone long, but her biggest son had other plans, taking her to the place of his birth and her first husband’s death.

Dany had been let down in the Dothraki Sea to find food and to relieve herself, but the moment she went too far for her son’s liking, he had roared for her to come back.

It wasn’t until they had gotten too close to a Dothraki camp that he had allowed her to seek better sustenance and clothes, but they had not stayed on land long.

Horseback was terrible, but the back of a Dragon for long periods of time was worse. She could not recall a time where her back ached as it did, but the physical problems were welcome for it did not allow her to think about Viserion.

But she was back in Winterfell where now, it was to be discussed. Where she would be called a failure, where the death of her resurrected son, or lack thereof, would be on her.

_Jon_.

It had been a little over a fortnight. A fortnight and five days, to be exact.

His eyes were sunken in and dark, jaw clenched, but still his irises were filled with relief.

A breath escaped Daenerys’ lips though she held tightly on to her posture despite Missandei’s incessant tugging that she sit for a moment.

He was the last to come greet her, and she covered the hurt well, but when he spoke, the disbelief that graced her features was obvious.

“Are you well?”

Dany nodded, surprised at his formality.

“Very well. Allow my sister to assist with any aid you require,” he replied curtly, bowing before motioning for the Usurper’s son to follow him.

She had not been the only one stunned, for Lady Sansa’s expression held a rigid confusion as well, but before Dany could ask an incisive question, her friend pulled her away from the hall.

Dany wobbled, her thighs stinging with pain, her eyes heating with irritation. Emotion filled her and she could hardly explain why. All she wished to know was what Jon Snow’s problem was.

_She had to leave,_ Dany knew he understood.

“My queen,” Missandei sighed, closing the door to a room that was unfamiliar, undoubtedly lovelier, and obviously hers by the unsown fabrics that hung with pins in the colors her and Missandei had picked before she left.

Tears threatened to spill which did not go unnoticed by her friend. So, when Lord Tyrion knocked, her best friend told him to return later and when Yeshesi and Jhemmefi arrived with a warm plate and hot water, she took it and promised that she could handle their duties for the remainder of the night.

Dizziness took Dany by surprise when she stood. Ignoring it, she quietly demanded to know what had happened while she was absent.

“For the nights you were gone, His Grace was nearly feral with distress. His inflexibility has astounded even his family,” the curly haired girl filled a copper tub. “I do not think the northern lords will be much of a problem any longer, but the group of rebels, if they do not heed His Grace’s warning- will find themselves in the most unfortunate of situations if caught, I believe. As it should be.” 

“Warning?” Dany managed to say, her voice hoarse.

“The king. He is not pleased, my queen,” Missandei glanced up from pouring soothing oils, brown eyes full of cautionary wisdom. “I have never seen him so. It is both inspiring and terrifying, for King Jon is not aggressive.”

Missandei motioned for her to step into the basin quickly, while she sat the hotplate near the firepit and laid out a frock.

A knock sounded at the door, _again_ , when Dany began wrapping a robe around her waist, stepping from the lukewarm water.

Missandei offered her the pot pie that seemed to ooze with a thick brown sauce and smelled of onions and something she did not like that made her grimace and shake her head.

The girl nodded at once, a peculiar look on her face, and marched towards the door as another round of thumps against the wood rang through the room.

“It is Lord Tyrion,” Missandei whispered harshly, assessing whether her queen wished to speak to him. Dany waved her hand, indicating for the woman to open the door.

Raising her eyebrow, Missandei bid her a goodnight and bowed out of the room.

“If you are here to question me, I would advise you not to,” Dany cautioned, already feeling the consequences of her actions.

“I am not,” her Lord Hand began, hesitantly.

“I _am_ ,” he admitted after a heartbeat. “But I am happy that you returned.”

His feet moved across the floor, finding a seat near the fire, pointing at the plate he was about to move, offering it to her, same as Missandei did.

She scowled, “Did you think I would not?”

Tyrion shoved the plate to another chair as her desk was littered with scrolls.

“You might have not,” he peered up after seating himself near the warm glow. “Your life is more important than mine or Missandei’s. I hope you understand this-”

“It is important to me-”

“You flatter us so, but it is not as significant as this,” his voice was firm as his finger twirled the air, referring to everything around them. “We will not usher in a new world or win wars. _You_ will.”

“ _You_ will help,” she argued, though it was futile. It sounded as if she whining, but it really was just the exhaustion trickling through her body.

Her frustration mounted. She could not do it alone. She needed her people, and _they_ were her people. Tyrion, her Hand and her most trusted advisor, her spymaster, Ser Jorah whom she thought at one point would not matter but in the thick of tensions, he was her shield, her friend.

“You think I can take these kingdoms without your aid?’

Tyrion pondered the question, assessing her enquiry. His head tipped to the side and a small smile tugged at his lips as he turned to the fire. “I always did and still do. More so now than before.” 

“You did not act it,” she snorted, attempting to lighten the despondence that filtered through the chamber.

“You have more experience now than you ever have,” he stated. “You have traveled through the lands you wish to rule over. I am sure you have met many people and had notable experiences.” 

“You could have died, Daenerys.”

He spoke to her now as a friend. “ _So many times_ within the last two moons.”

“Whether it be the unavoidable journey south to north or when you allowed yourself to be taken by rebels-” Tyrion paused. “Or by Drogon, who, to my knowledge per Jon’s words, was not at your aid and nowhere to be found within that moon.” 

“I know you think the slaying of your son to be your fault- it _is_ and it’s _not_. It was an unknowable outcome by a measured decision with some risk. We did not think that to be one of them. And I apologize for how I treated you when you left,” Tyrion watched as her features went agape. “I was wrong. But chasing after him… I _understand_ , but you must do anything else but that. I must urge caution.”

“We might not get another chance,” Dany maintained, disappointment in herself thick in her throat.

“Perhaps, but you are still not alone in this. We will find a way,” Tyrion insisted.

“Your grace, you have been gone for,” Tyrion began counting on his fingers. “Over a fortnight and five days. I spoke with the king, and I must tell you, love is the death of honour and duty.”

Dany realized the longer he spoke the more ominous and eerie he became.

Was this why Jon was so formal and cold with her?

Turning back to the fire, his voice fell lower, “I found him, outside the gates. Every night he watched the stars for you and every morning he would stand upon the walkways to watch the sky, awaiting your return.”

There was an audible swallow before he continued but the hairs on her body stood on end. “Two nights ago, I looked into his eyes as Rhaegal approached him and he stood, _easy_ , but he looked to your son as if he would take him and ride until he found you.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“And I can’t describe to you what an unfortunate situation that would leave Lady Stark and I in, to have our two monarchs go missing,” Tyrion added.

In an effort to deflect, Dany aimed to dismiss his haunting words, saying, “Jon Snow always has the look of escaping in his eyes.”

“Jon Snow has strain within his eyes, Your Grace. Not consistent despair,” Tyrion modified.

“He called you _Dany_ when I returned and spoke with him,” Tyrion looked at her. “Dany? I have never heard anyone call you such.”

Genuine confusion spread across her Hand’s features.

“He went from _the queen_ and skipped over _my queen_ and _Queen Daenerys_ , seven hells, _he even skipped Daenerys_ and went straight towards _Dany_ ,” a knot formed between his eyebrows, while placating the distaste that took form in a lip curl.

“It slipped right out,” Tyrion motioned with his hands.

Silence once again bid its welcome while Daenerys mustered up words.

“I am sure you can understand what a mouthful Daenerys Targaryen is for a man as simple named as Jon Snow.”

“And I am not shocked, for you and I both knew of his growing love for you,” Tyrion started again, laughing at her excuse. “But the look of tenderness in yours is what takes me off guard.”

Dany’s mouth opened but no words came out.

“I certainly think you to be a far more convincing liar than your lover,” the sad smile that graced her friend’s face would haunt her in the quiet that followed.

 

+

 

_Another_ knock sounded at her door shortly after Jhemmeffi and her mother, the Dothraki healer, stopped by her chambers. 

She just wished to be left alone, but Tyrion and Missandei insisted someone check her.

The woman eyed her body warily and did not say much. She only spoke of the soft men layered in armored dresses as a distraction during her inspections. As she left, she continued with anyone who would listen down the solar for she was absolutely enthralled with the defiance and endurance of northern men.

Dany padded her feet towards the entrance and opened it only slightly to peak through. 

Jon did not ask politely to enter, he just pressed it further open as she stepped to the side slightly, frowning at his expression.

He was upset. _Very upset._

She turned from him as he shut the door, not wanting to _hear_ it from him either.

No words were spoken as she unbraided her hair to let it dry completely, but she grew substantially annoyed by his silence as she turned around. His expression was one of regret.

To her surprise, he moved towards her and enfolded her into his arms. She almost melted into the crevice of his neck that smelled of firewood and leather, and doubled over in with comfort with the flex of his rigid muscles and flat palms against her back.

Trailing a hand up to cup her head to his, he uttered nothing for a long while, just holding her. 

“I am still entirely displeased with you, do not let this confuse you,” his voice was low and guttural, oozing of the displeasure and temperateness that was so undeniably Jon Snow.

Dany let out a chuckle though her eyes were glassy. She missed him more than she cared to speak aloud.

Every day she willed Drogon to take her home after they trailed Viserion back beyond the Wall. After the fourth day, she had given up attempting to get to Winterfell, and started to think of alternatives in which she could return. But her tether was resurging the longer she stayed with him, so she decided to allow it to reform.

She had eaten charred meat with disdain and revolt until he dropped upon a land rich with wild fruits and it was a sad game to see which berries wouldn’t be poisonous. 

On the day before they arrived back at Winterfell, Drogon had screeched at her to ride him, for the first time as she wasn’t trying to leave. He took her back home- to where Jon now stepped back from her. “Do not do that again,” he told her.

She bristled at his tone, at him commanding her. Though a part of her insides ached at the authority, at the northern grit in his voice, she would not be told what to do. 

“I almost went mad,” he said. His face was straight, and his eyes burned with worry. “You were gone for _ages_ with no word.”

She knew. She understood, and she also realized had their roles been reversed, she would have looked for him.

Tyrion’s words were now an itch to her skin that she was now scratching in nervous shame. 

She hated herself for how her how her head bowed so. He missed her too. Not for the war, she realized. _For her. Just her. Just Dany._  

He sighed turning away. “Where are you going?” she asked quietly. Was he so mad at her that he would not stay?

“I can’t believe I have to creep about my own castle,” he gritted his teeth. “I had to sneak to get to your chambers unnoticed.”

Her brows furrowed.

“It is not becoming of you and I, if we are seen together. It is unwise,” he stumbled over his words with his lips curled in resentment.

“ _Gods_ , I can’t sleep without you near me.” He sounded so enraged with himself as he raked his hands through the hair he’d untied.

There was not much for her to do besides nod and turn for her bed with visible disappointment. She was not sure as to why. She had expected him to be cross with her and not come at all. 

She folded over the plush furs she had been presented with by Lady Sansa and curled in the bed. Turning to her side, she watched and waited for Jon to leave but he just exhaled and started at his boots, tossing them in no special direction. 

He removed his cloak, laying it over one of the chairs and discarded his tunic, leaving all of his scars in unashamed display. _Good_ , she thought. _He no longer cared._

Dany unfolded the furs, inviting him to join her. He solemnly accepted, slipping in beside her with nothing on but the woolen breeches he slept in.

Her body was immediately swept closer to him, making her exhale comfortably against his chest, her eyes closing as he did _the thing_ \- her head pushed further into his palm as his thumb stroked her scalp to her contentment.

“When were you going to tell me you could walk through fire?” he questioned softly.

Unknowing if he was mad, she peered at him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“I figured I could surprise you _one day_ ,” she commented after noticing humour in his incredulity and curiosity.

“ _One day_ , aye?”

She nodded into his neck, bringing his fallen hand back atop her head so he could continue his previous ministrations.

“One day, will I be returning home from... _something_. Forging, running with Ghost, training perhaps, and see our home partially afire and you basking in the flames?”

Dany felt her lips tug and her heart clench, wondering if Jon Snow indeed knew what he was saying, but the way his arms curled tight around her, almost afraid that if he would let go, she would disappear again, told her that he _understood_.

She could picture it. Perhaps a small cottage with just enough room for his siblings and friends to visit. A red door. Them in their old age, sitting in an outside chair, surrounded by lemon trees, watching her two sons circle the clouds and his massive white wolf tearing apart their over grown garden.

“Naked,” she added. Aflame and naked. “ _Surprise_ ,” she allowed the word to kiss his neck, raising gooseflesh upon his arms.

“Aye, naked,” he agreed. “A sight that was.”

His voice was a murmur, and she could hear the exhaustion as he spoke next, “By the time you awake, I will not be here so do not be mad.”

Her eyes snapped back to him. “I normally wake before you.”  

“Aye, only with the energy my seed seems to give you.” It was a crude comment that was considerably true sans the first time they had laid together. Her lips tugged up against him despite his gruffness. “And that is if I am able to sleep.”

Her face scrunched, gazing up at him.

He gave her a sad smile. “You’re back, but I feel a part of me has gone missing in your absence and I cannot seem to locate him once more,” he explained.

Jon smoothed his palms over her white tresses, “Let’s meet tomorrow, I will find you. I wish to show you something.”

 

 

***

 

 

It was an odd cumulation of events that followed.

Jon and Dany had been speaking intimately in the crypts about Jon’s father and what he would have done in his place until Bran showed up with a desolate looking Sam.

Dany and Jon had stood still, waiting. They were almost positive Bran had come to state that the war had finally come, but what he said was far worse. At least for Jon.

The silence was beyond deafening for Dany as her hope withered away, and in its place arose devastation.

Her happiness at the young Stark’s words faded when Jon turned around in response to the oncoming steps of their advisors searching for them for a council meeting. His cheeks were turning a deep shade of frustrated scarlet and his eyes had become a forsaken red.

Sam urged Bran to stop speaking for it was her and Jon’s truth, not his siblings, or rather, cousins, and their advisors secret to keep, should they decide to disclose it.

Jon didn’t seem to care in the moment.

“Why tell me this?” His raven curls had not been tied that day, falling loosely into his eyes as his voice fell to a low croak.

“Because you must know-”

_That he is the heir to the iron throne?_

_That he is the last male Targaryen?_

_That he is her nephew?_

“You _deserve_ to know,” San corrected, looking at Jon and Daenerys. _“Both of you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are typos, I apologize! I will review this tonight or in the am once more! 
> 
> Comment your favorite part or something you enjoyed. It makes me very happy! Feedback is a fic writer's payment. Talk to me! I love you guys lots. It's been an insane year here, a whole year guys, a whole year and I am utterly thankful for my readers. You guys are the best, and I am so happy that I put on my big girl panties and published this to meet my fellow soft bitches. I am utterly grateful and don't deserve all of you. 
> 
> Happy Holidays and and I wish you a great new year <3 See you lovelies in 2019!
> 
>  
> 
> Next on Howl....
> 
> Winterfell had been bleak, but she found a way to bring life into it despite the fear running rampant.
> 
> Ghost was with them too, licking the fluffy white off some stone, running to the Queen every time she called for him to be her and little girls’ shield from a fort his sisters built near some carriages.
> 
> He could hear Gendry’s complaining, and Sansa finally having some semblance of fun, but he heard nothing louder than the chime of his Queen’s laughter and squeals of delight from a Dothraki girl and a set of northern twin boys.
> 
> Ghost had pretty much taken a snowball to the snout for her as Jon glared at the image before him.
> 
> Sam nudged him as Jon noticed his bannermen laughing. 
> 
> She was stealing their hearts.
> 
> “And you are mad she has stolen your wolf too?”


	12. Moments Passed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell had been bleak, but she found a way to bring life into it despite the fear running rampant.
> 
> Ghost was with them too, licking the fluffy white off some stone, running to the Queen every time she called for him to be her and little girls’ shield from a fort his sisters built near some carriages.
> 
> He could hear Gendry’s complaining, and Sansa finally having some semblance of fun, but he heard nothing louder than the chime of his Queen’s laughter and squeals of delight from a Dothraki girl and a set of northern twin boys.
> 
> Ghost had pretty much taken a snowball to the snout for her as Jon glared at the image before him.
> 
> Sam nudged him as Jon noticed his bannermen laughing.
> 
> She was stealing their hearts.
> 
> “And you are mad she has stolen your wolf too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iane is an angel as always! My heart is the best beta ever. Go read her work by the way... There is a part in here that only got written after I read her smut at 4am so, honestly, bless.

_****Part III** :  _death before dishonor – the calm before the storm._  ** _

 

 

_**Previously....** _

 

 

> It was an odd cumulation of events that followed.
> 
> Jon and Dany had been speaking intimately in the crypts about Jon’s father and what he would have done in his place until Bran showed up with a desolate looking Sam.
> 
> Dany and Jon had stood still, waiting. They were almost positive Bran had come to state that the war had finally come, but what he said was far worse. At least for Jon.
> 
> The silence was beyond deafening for Dany as her hope withered away, and in its place arose devastation.
> 
> Her happiness at the young Stark’s words faded when Jon turned around in response to the oncoming steps of their advisors searching for them for a council meeting. His cheeks were turning a deep shade of frustrated scarlet and his eyes had become a forsaken red.
> 
> Sam urged Bran to stop speaking for it was her and Jon’s truth, not his siblings, or rather, cousins, and their advisors secret to keep, should they decide to disclose it.
> 
> Jon didn’t seem to care in the moment.
> 
> “Why tell me this?” His raven curls had not been tied that day, falling loosely into his eyes as his voice fell to a low croak.
> 
> “Because you must know-”
> 
> _That he is the heir to the iron throne?_
> 
> _That he is the last male Targaryen?_
> 
> _That he is her nephew?_
> 
> “You  _deserve_  to know,” San corrected, looking at Jon and Daenerys.  _“Both of you.”_
> 
>   

 

* * *

 

“Know what?” Sansa interrupted, a frown firmly forming on her already displeased face as she came to a stop.

“I don’t care,” Jon shook his head, disbelievingly. _Desperately, in denial_. “I don’t care,” he repeated, shaking his head furiously. “It changes NOTHING.”

Daenerys flinched from the enmity that escaped his lips, wincing at the wildness pooling within his irises. Jon had always been a conundrum; an array of violent depression coupled with a strange combination of guidance and hope.

“It changes _everything_ ,” Dany whispered sadly.

 _For her,_ it changed nothing. His eyes would forever carry her heart, and his palms would deliver her relief. His soul was a place that kept her comfort, and his heart would always be gold.

 _For her,_ nothing would be different, except that she was no longer the last of her name. He would never fathom how glorious that felt.

The weight she had bore since she was told her womb was tainted had been lifted. The guilt from her brother’s death had melted away, and the anger she felt towards her eldest sibling, while still prickled her skin, no longer gripped her throat. Rhaegar had only been in love.

“I do not want the crown.” It was not a sneer but the bite in his words were not lost to her.

Dany snapped her head upwards, ready to question how he could even think she cared of such a thing in the moment, but she only saw his back.

“None of this leaves the crypts, do you understand me?”

Sam nodded at once as Bran gazed dispassionately.

Dany reached for Jon, but he shrank away, his stare bared with terror before he turned and left.

As she tried to breathe, a sob escaped her lips and broke through the muffle of her own palms.

Her Lord Hand must have puzzled the situation together, dropping his face into his hands while Varys seemed, for the first time, absolutely thrown.

“What is happening? Why is our brother bloody _hurt_?” Sansa Stark’s voice was dripping with confusion and worry, her arms reached towards her younger brother, while she shouted his given name.

“He is not our brother.”

It was such a simple statement, such a simple truth, but the situation called for far more delicacy than the northern boy offered.

“He looks just like me, Bran, take your visions to the Old Gods or shove them up your arse-”

“Arya,” the youngest Stark barked, his mask cracking with annoyance. “He looks like you because you look like Aunt Lyanna. He is our cousin.”

“And who’s his fathe-”

Lady Sansa had gasped while Daenerys waited for Arya to piece together what her older sister had just figured out.

As the red headed girl curved towards the Queen, Dany finally swayed under her gaze for it was the first time their faces reflected equal misery.

“You truly love him?”

Daenerys never got to answer Lady Sansa before the girl fisted her skirts and took off in the same direction as her brother.

“Have you absolutely lost your mind? Is there no hope for you?” Arya stepped towards the Stark boy, perhaps ready to harm him. “That _is_ our fucking brother, you stupid-"

“I don’t care who sired him or who birthed him. What his claim to whatever is- our father raised him, and he is our brother,” she spat, the façade of the stoic assassin completely gone and taken over by the wild wolf, _the she-wolf,_ her infamous moniker, _Jon’s mother’s moniker,_ appeared.

“The next time your eyes roll white and you have some vision of the past or the future, and something vile slips from your tongue will be the last time you have eyes, Bran. You better relocate the remnants of who you are before you start on someone else.”

Before the girl turned to leave as well, the boy spoke. His words were cryptic, oozing with omniscience.

“He needs to know that he is _The_ Prince, Arya,” his voice had been cold and detached before his eyes softened. But only for a moment. If Daenerys’ feet hadn’t been glued to the spot Jon had led her to, and her eyes firmly watching the heated exchange, she would have missed it. “ _I am_ trying to help.”

“Well, don’t, or in the very least, put your efforts towards the Night King or rebels, or anything else,” Arya’s voice was as frantic as her eyes now, switching between Samwell Tarly whose face was crestfallen, gazing between the two siblings and herself.

“Daenerys,” Tyrion’s firm voice cut through the hostile air of the catacombs.

“I need a moment,” her eyes fluttered back the tears threatening to spill as she willed her legs to carry her anywhere but there.

She stopped at Ser Davos’ touch as he gave her a caring nudge that was understanding and sad. He had been unflinchingly quiet, so much so that she had forgotten he had walked in as well.

Patting his hand, she nodded towards him and her advisors, motioning that she would go further in, but she left in the direction she and Jon had come in.

_She felt sick._

Her entire life she yearned to have family, family that loved and cared for her. And in her brother’s death, she knew she would be the last, only she wasn’t.

She was not the last Targaryen.

She was not alone.

And she was loved. And not alone.

_But she would be lonely._

It was the last thing Daenerys thought before her legs gave out.

 

+

 

There was a thud and the clinking of metal. Fabric disrupted the air, making a whooshing sound and noises of a baby rang through wherever Daenerys was.

She could not remember when it had started snowing.

When she and Jon had entered the crypts, the air was clear but when she left the flurries had begun. Everything had been fine until it was not, and Dany could not recall the explicit moment when dizziness took over and her body momentarily ceased to work.

 _“Mama,”_ the sounds of a young boy startled Daenerys’ eyes open.

She could not locate the source of the call when the blurs of a dark figure blocked her line of vision.

Her heart rate picked up as sickness pooled in her belly. Her eyes began to focus on the dark cloak moving towards her.

 _“Oh, thank the gods.”_ It was Samwell Tarly.

Dany tried to compartmentalize the guilt she kept buried with all her other emotions she hadn’t the time for. Little Sam was the noisemaker; Gilly’s sweet little boy, who sent agony through her chest every time he tugged on his mother’s garments.

She turned her face away when the creak of a door sounded. The light clanking halted.

_“You shouldn’t have brought him here, Sam.”_

_“Well where was I supposed to put him? I couldn’t find you and Jon- he called for me immediately and I-”_

_“She’s the queen-”_

_“She’s in and out. I think she bumped her-”_

_“It is not proper you know that.”_

Gilly’s place in the societal hierarchy was the least of her problems. However, the feeling of cotton was prevalent on her tongue and her eyes refused to focus.

Dany curved her head once more, hearing the woman leave with the low strum of the child’s gleeful voice. Before Dany could even blink, Sam was reaching into his medical kit.

She wished to speak and would not stop until his name fell from her lips in a low croak.

His head peered up, she supposed, testing to see if she was truly conscious before moving forward with some sort of iron pot.

“You shouldn’t even be helping me,” Dany uttered when he sat before her, holding something strong in scent for her to sniff.

The burly man seemed taken aback with the downward pointing of his brows and the sad tilt of his head.

“And why is that?” he questioned, and Daenerys supposed it had been a long time coming.

“I killed your father.”

Silence fell thick but Sam’s hand never moved from his attempt to aid her. Dany would like to think it was from his shock and not out of his unflinching kindness.

“At the battle for High Garden,” Dany paused, her throat burning with both embarrassment and discomfort. “Your father and brother were there.”

The conversation had been avoided. Dany had passed the man in the library numerous times with Jon, had sat with Gilly and spoke about life beyond the wall, and even supped with them almost every evening.

Before she left, she had contemplated sitting with the man, but she could not imagine looking either him or Jon in the eyes after that. But now, she needn’t worry. Neither of them would stand to stare at her for longer than a moment.

“Why would you harm them, were you not aligned with the Tyrells?” His hand finally started to waver, realization dawning on him.

“They allied with the Lannisters.”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “My father’s family has always been loyal to-”

“They were not this time,” Dany swallowed, watching his hand place the pot beside her, as he stood up.

The further he moved from her, the harder it was for her to focus so she found herself watching a blur of actions as the man took sure steps back and forth.

Dany supposed if he had longer hair, he would be pulling at it as Jon normally did.

Her throat began to constrict.

“Were the bones sent back?” Sam finally asked.

“There were no bones.” An explanation was not necessary. Samwell Tarly was not a stupid man.

“Why are you telling me this?” his voice was strained, similar to her King in the North, and the longer they stared at each other, Daenerys came to the conclusion that he thought she was trying to hurt him.

“I should have told you before,” she faced away from the former Night’s Watchman.

Dany expected him to leave, she _almost_ wanted him to leave.

Silence fell again and she was sure he was attempting to even his tone, concentrating on breathing.

“My father was not a good man.” She supposed that was his silver lining.

“He was still your father.” And Dany out of anyone understood how that felt.

“Don’t push your feelings onto me, your grace,” Sam said quietly, wringing his hands, unsure if he should have spoken the words. “I am not going to make you feel worse as it is.”

“I know that is what you want,” he continued, cautiously. “Thank you for telling me.”

Instead of moving to leave, he walked back to the seat beside her that he had previously occupied with a somber look of understanding that left something hollow in Daenerys’ stomach.

“I really wished to tell you before,” she repeated in earnest.

A bitter smile graced Sam’s features. “Did you, really?” he asked, disbelieving.

“No,” she admitted. “I wanted to pretend it never happened.”

When he inquired if it was regret that she felt, she denied it. Dany knew that those lives were necessary despite the advisement against it. She felt it. But she disappointed everyone around her including her Lord Hand and Jon Snow. And she never truly ever wished to do either of those things.

“Is that all you cared about?” Sam probed, his face passive.

“At the time, yes. When I met you, I did not want to hurt you,” Dany paused. “You do not seem fond of your father.”

“I am not, but my mother- that would have devastated her. No heir, no husband, no remains.”

Sam’s emotions finally caught up with him and Daenerys was ashamed to say she had not even thought of that.

“How could you not?” Sam’s lips tugged downward.

“I barely had a family and I have no home.” She had no idea what that type of loss or structure felt like.

Sam’s facial expression insisted that she had a family now and Dany could not tell if he was supportive or if his kind irises held pity.

 

 

+

 

 

Jon had been quiet as he waited outside the door for Sam to leave.

He was seething. With rage or regret, he was uncertain.

What he was certain of was his worry.

He paced back and forth as Missandei whispered to Grey Worm, trying to figure out what had happened, for distress was prevalent in both Jon and his sister’s gaze.

_“You need not be out here,” Jon urged his sister to return to the castle. The snow had just begun to fall heavy and hard._

_“Yes, I do,” she nudged him, leaning against his shoulder. Isolation was something he wanted but not something he needed, he realized as he pulled her in closer._

_The Godswood was a quiet place, serene and honest. Jon wondered how his father had managed to hold such knowledge, knowledge that might’ve changed the realm. The betrayal ran deep inside of Jon no matter how much he understood that his life was at risk._

_It was not until he glanced down to his sister that the realization that his father’s life could have been spared had he had known he was a prince. Maybe their family would not be nearly destroyed if he had known the truth._

_His eyes started to burn when he thought about Robb, Bran, and Rickon, Arya and Sansa; their tragedies and the witnessing of their family’s slaughter._

_The responsibility he felt years ago to go to Robb’s aid only deepened._

_Sucking in a harsh breath, he heard Sansa sniffle. Her words were nimble and apologetic. She did not bring up Dany, only that her entire life she had hated him because he was not her mother’s son._

_She chuckled a bitter laugh about wanting to marry a knight or a prince, kind and strong. He had been similar to that ideal, and he was her own cousin whom she had treated like shit._

_When Jon turned to make a face at her, she looked positively green and ill._

_“I am so sorry.”_

_They must have been in the snow for hours._

_“It’s-everything will be well again.” Her tone was sure, but her eyes were not._

_“Sansa- it is fine-”_

_“I will not argue with you,” she spoke, hushing him as his own mouth began to open to protest the topic. “I do not think less of you and I just want you to know that.”_

_Emotion welled in his throat as she stood up, finally shivering, the ends of her fiery hair covered in snowflakes._

_She pressed her lips together and asked if he wished to stay out longer, and he contemplated it. Staying in the cold, freezing his body until he turned purple all over to numb the throbbing in his chest. But something told him to take his sister’s hand and walk her back to the castle. She had no guards, and if something happened to her, he honestly thought he would just give up._

_They were greeted by a commotion in the great hall, servants were whispering harshly, something about the queen, about foreigner blood being weak, mentioning a fall._

_Jon’s eyes began searching frantically as Sansa gripped his shoulder, urging docility._

_Clenching his teeth, he moved furiously into the direction of anyone that could tell him what the new problem was when Missandei began walking with haste from the kitchens._

_Grabbing the curly-haired woman by the arm, he nearly begged for word and she just insisted that he follow, stating that she has to go back to the guest wing immediately, informing him and his sister on the way._

“She will be alright,” Sam stepped out of her chambers looking pale.

Jon’s chest clenched, his face burning. He scolded himself for running away.

The Dany he had met moons ago would have told him he was a coward. He could almost hear _“You are a craven, Jon Snow,”_ slipping past her lips with an eye roll and a shake of her head.

“She is malnourished-”

“I know,” Jon snapped, recalling noticing how thin she was when they had first arrived. Surely disappearing with her dragons did not help either.

“She needs sustenance,” Sam spoke slowly, ignoring Jon’s irritability. “And rest, and perhaps- comfort. She said some…” his friend paused.

“She is not doing too well either,” Sam sighed, eying Jon’s overly pink face that was thawing from the cold. “But she should be physically fine,” the man turned to Missandei with a peculiar look, asking if she thought the queen would feel better with a woman examining her more thoroughly.

Jon tuned them out, moving towards the door.

He was not sure what he expected when he saw her, but she was asleep and so very pale.

According to Missandei, she had been in the snow for as longs as he and Sansa had been in the Godswood.

Northerners were accustomed and prepared for a harsh fall; Daenerys no matter the time they spent on the road during snowstorms, would not handle such a drastic drop-in temperature _well_ , let alone unconscious.

Guilt had flooded him. She probably left in haste, desiring to be alone with her mind as well, for Ghost and Grey Worm had found her not too far from the crypts’ back entrance.

He cursed himself for not staying and perhaps speaking with her. But that would change nothing. He would not have stopped caring about her as he did, it would not change his claim, it would not change that deranged prophecy of the Red Woman. Nothing would change.

He had no words, so, after that day, their advisors spoke little about the information revealed in the crypts and Jon had stayed with her as she slept, every night, for days.

 

 

***

 

 

But that was not something she knew.

Dany had never seen him much after Bran’s revelation.

 

 

***

 

 

Arya and Gendry were the only people Jon truly spoke to.

Jon supposed it was because no matter what, Arya never looked at him any which way and only called him a cunt once a day, which he deliberately associated with the fact that he refused to fight her, and _not for avoiding the queen_. And Gendry because he thought Gendry did not know. But he did.

“They’re what?” Gendry almost dropped a blade mid-quench, his face dripping sweat and incredulity.

“Did I stutter?” Arya snapped.

“No, but you came in here screaming and I’m having a bit of difficulty comprehendin’ and processin’.” There was a frustrated sigh and when Gendry put down his tool, he glared at her as he gripped the hem of his tunic, lifting it to wipe his face.

The bull froze, his eyes falling to the raven-haired girl who was staring intently at him, his movements, maybe even his torso.

“Should you even be telling me this?” his irises widened. “Does he know that I know this? Should I know this?” The questions fell from Gendry’s lips hotly.

“Of course not,” Arya scowled, “So shut the fuck up about this while _I_ panic.”

Her voice slightly shook, which made Gendry falter. His gaze softened and he allowed her to continue speaking about the queen’s accident that was one of the castle’s secrets. Lady Stark and Lord Tyrion did not think that anyone finding out the queen might be falling ill for unknown reasons was the wisest idea, so they stuck with that it may be ‘due to the weather.’

Arya said that the queen wasn’t ill, but also spoke on wishing to speak with her and see if she was _well_.

Gendry could still remember not too long ago the king and queen arguing like an old wedded couple. Jon had been relaxed in her presence, he had made the queen comfortable, and he made the queen emotionally _unambiguous_.

Arya whispered that her brother was lost, that his eyes seemed further away than before which worried the both of them. And if Arya thought Jon had changed before, she had certainly been mistaken. A tense bastard king that smiled at the oddest parts of the day was more welcome than the heartbroken legitimate heir to the Iron Throne.

 

 

***

 

 

The Stark women have been oddly kind to Dany. They must have sympathized for her as their harsh northern gaze had been replaced with gentleness and courage. Perhaps, even some amusement.

_“If you have fainted at this, how the hell will you handle a war?” Lady Arya had taunted her, fingers dancing alongside her bed’s edge._

For some unusual reason, Dany’s body had been delicate and horribly unforgiving. Her eyes seemed to roll back easy as foot traffic and the sound of her Lord Hand hummed her to sleep. She remembered overhearing Lord Varys enquire as to whether depression had finally hit her too deep.

_“I am not normally this fragile,” Dany started. “I promise.”_

Although weakness gripped her bones, she lifted herself into a sitting position to eye the young Stark as she moved from the bedside seating.

It must have been late for she looked ready to retire with her untied hair swaying in her abrupt movements.

 _“I sure hope not,” the girl remarked with a sniff, reminding Dany of Lady Sansa_.

**_Northern arrogance._ **

 

 

***

 

 

The same arrogance that she had been momentarily fond of began to irk her days later. _And she felt terribly ill on top of that._

Lady Sansa had been too hospitable, too sweet, too calm. It made her want to retch.

Jon Snow had to have been a nightmare. Not that Dany saw because she hardly saw him. Perhaps, briefly, during supper. Maybe the day the courtyards were cleared of ice.

But she knew. She heard through her advisors that Jon was obsessively training with the armies, challenging anyone, everyone.

“I do not believe he is doing it because he is being reckless,” Missandei held a book on her lap, warily eyeing the great white wolf, who had taken up residency in the guest solar, specifically the queen’s chambers.

Dany had thought that Jon had commanded him so until she found Lady Sansa scolding the animal because Jon needed him to leave with Arya into Winter’s Town for precautionary measures.

“Apparently _our_ men value strength and honest confrontation,” Missandei threw a cautionary look to the queen as the wolf stood and circled, trying to find a better spot on the sheepskin.

Dany’s head lifted with a triumphant smile which elicited a dry chuckle from her best friend.

 

***

 

 

A raven from Edd arrived.

It had been the second one since he returned, much to Jon’s sister’s pleasure.

Sansa had expressed displeasure in little word from the wall, but Jon found notice deeply unsettling.

It had been eerily quiet beyond the wall since Dany’s return.

The council had been aware that Dany did not slay her son.

It was discussed for the first week she had been “ill,” after her fall. Jon knew the important details and worked with the commanders on the military strategy, which was relieving, but the Kingslayer had pulled him aside and stated that they needed a weapon.

_Sam._

“Oh, look I have finally found you,” Sam peeked up from behind a large scroll.

“I reckon it is you I have found,” Jon retorted warily.

“You have been avoiding me _too_.”

Sam had briefly told him in passing that he had sat down with the Queen. He then proceeded to remind him of where he came from: the Wall, and all the decisions he had had to make, the lives he had _had_ to take.

Jon couldn’t fathom how he was getting scolded, but Sam had always been smarter than him, accepting despite the circumstance.

“You underestimate your importance-”

Jon had rolled his eyes before his friend could even finish.

“To her.”

Jon knew that he was being a coward for pointedly ignoring him after that. He needed time. He wanted time to adjust to everything he did _, everything they’ve done_ , and how he felt.

It was no secret that he had difficulty expressing himself, so how would he communicate sentiments he could hardly explain?

He has lain with his birth father’s _sister_ -his aunt. His blood. They were related. And it changed nothing, except shame. Every morning he awoke with shame, and every evening, he tossed and turned until mortification had set within him.

Jon welcomed Lord Tyrion most days. He was discreet and sensitive and only spoke regarding the war and the people.

Sam did not discuss how Jon should be running his kingdom and commanding his people. He wanted to discuss far worse things like emotional intimacy and sensitivity. Years ago, he would have entertained the conversation, allowing the man to speak for hours but Sam wanted him to contribute.

“You can talk to me, you know?” Sam paused, tossing him careful looks. “It’s not wrong...”

Jon had no intention of speaking about his feelings, so he stayed silent.

“Not necessarily, not _entirely_ ,” his friend continued with his head bowed. “You did not know.”

Sam kept going, attempting to tug him out of his blank stare, but Jon still had no words. “It’s not like I look at you different.”

Blinking, Jon only said, “You should.”

“I do not.”

While Sam removed himself from the seat across the table Jon had been standing in front of, he only repeated that, once again, neither the situation nor the statement changed how he felt.

“It should,” his friend called out, hunched over another table lined with books and candles.

The man repeated it again when he stood in front of Jon sliding two books towards him; a singed one that Sam flipped to a tagged page on the Stark siblings and another on the Targaryen dynasty.

“You cannot choose who you love,” Jon said as he eyed the text with uneasiness.

“So why do you ignore her?”

 

 

***

 

 

Daenerys had forgotten what night terrors felt like to deal with alone. Jon had been the one to cradle her harder, distract her, play with her hair, whisper comforts in her ear or wake her and listen to her speak until she fell back asleep.

She should have cherished it, for now she rolled over and only emptiness awaited her.

_Emptiness and nausea._

One never truly understood what they had until it was gone, because loneliness settled like a newborn civilization near a coast. Solitude began to flourish within her.

Dany searched the room for Ghost, hoping that Kovarro had let him in. He was strict about the beast, muttering under his breath that hounds should never be that large, but Ghost had turned out to be gentle.

Gilly disagreed and said that Jon’s creature was ferocious when need be, and to never underestimate him. The girl spoke with such fire in her eyes that she had to look towards the wolf to check if they were speaking about the same animal.

Feeling the opposite side of the bed, she shoved her hands off the side to see if he’d pull out from under something, but nothing came to her.

Huffing, Dany flipped the furs off of her body, looking for something to slip her feet into in search of the large white mass.

With a peek of her head outside of the doors, she saw Kovarro nod in her direction. Speaking in Dothraki, she informed him that she was to walk around the solar. The warrior scrunched up his face, asking if she was well enough to be moving to which she just rolled her eyes. She refused to show any more weakness.

Dany roamed the solar for a while, calling for the animal, but he must have not been anywhere near. He did tend to disappear, but her isolation was too consuming for her to return to her bed chambers.

She had crept into her Lord Hand’s room under the assumption that he was up through the dim light peeking through the crack of his door. However, he had been fast asleep on a lounging chair covered in parchment that Dany removed from his chest.

The queen walked out of the room after covering his body with a blanket, closing the door tight thinking that perhaps Missandei may be up.

When the door to Missandei’s chambers creaked open, she found her friend and Grey Worm intertwined, her lord commander fast asleep with his head on her closest friend’s lap. Missandei was in a sitting position with a burning candle to her left, her eyes fluttering until her head shot up mid fall.

The woman went to open her mouth, but Dany quickly motioned for her to stay hushed for Grey Worm must have finally started resting.

“I thought you were alone,” Dany whispered, indicating that she was to leave. The queen felt foolish for she should have understood that if her Unsullied commander was not with her then he had to have been with his woman.

“What is wrong?” Missandei flushed, her brows furrowed.

Dany returned by shaking her head, faking a convincing smile, but Missandei told her to stay, shifting slightly as she stroked Grey Worm’s head, careful not to wake him.

Dany frowned as Missandei pat the unoccupied space on the bed next to her. “He is very tired-” Which explained why the man did not wake with movement.

“Come, please,” her friend insisted. “If you leave then I will have to get up and follow you, then he will wake up, and none of us want that.”

Missandei arched her eyebrow, waving Dany forward, allowing the queen to settle in the corner. She placed her hand over Dany’s and somewhere within the hour of hushed whispers they both fell asleep.

 

 

***

 

 

Tyrion and Dany sat opposite one another, all hard eyes and stiff.

She had been positively sick for the last few hours, vomiting up anything she had attempted to put in her belly, and she was not in the mood.

“Don’t,” Dany warned.

A part of her found his clinginess annoying, but another part of her found it comforting. He was worried, nauseatingly so. His face never showed it but the way his fingers tapped and glided every flat surface in his immediate area would have made people think that he had an attention problem or started consuming some sort of addictive foreign substance.

It had actually taken him longer than Dany thought for him to seek her out. Allowing her to hide her embarrassment and lick her wounds, she supposed, was his way of going easy on her.

Her Lord Hand blinked placidly before questioning her on earlier events.

She thought a fortnight would be enough for Jon to, at the bare minimum, glance at her. She hardly saw him privately.

Seeking him out had been far worse, in retrospect.

_“Hello,” she called out, finding him walking from the Great Hall, leaving an annoyed Kovarro at an exit, stepping into Jon’s line of view._

_Watching him flinch at her voice and his lips curl into something of deep grief, she could almost hear her heart shatter._

_“Your Grace,” Jon bowed politely, feet rooted in place before his eyes shifted in distress._

_Dany narrowed her eyes at the title. They had always known each other or at the very least, understood and tolerated. Now, discomfort resided between them for Jon Snow’s eyes were looking for an escape._

_“I should be off,” Jon motioned towards another hall. “It is very good to know that you are well,” he nodded resolutely._

_“Wait,” Dany moved directly in front of him, blocking his passage._

_“I-” she stuttered looking for words she did not have, knowing she just wished to be within his presence despite her increasing frustration. “I have not seen you,” she finally managed to say._

_It was stupid for she saw him at council meetings, addressing all of their growing problems, and placating those who were worried._

_“Been a bit distracted, busy-” His voice was gruff, body tense and ready to flee._

_Dany could not help the words that slipped from her mouth, and she regretted them immediately._

_“I missed you.” It was an understatement. As soon he filtered into her peripheral, she had wanted to run to him._

_His mouth unhinged just slightly for a noise to slip past his teeth before he closed only to repeat the motion. His hands must have inadvertently reached out to her, and Dany took it as solidarity, her eyes completely enraptured by his smoldering dark ones._

_Her lips tugged and Jon’s hard eyes softened before they heard the footsteps that snapped him from his reverie._

_Panic made a home on his features. And while Jon wanted to scream that he did not just miss her, he loved, wanted, needed and thought about her every second of every minute, all he could do was whisper it but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to quell her insecurities, so he said nothing instead._

_“I- I am sorry,” Jon swallowed. “I need- I just need some… time.”_

_His name fell from her lips as she sighed, emotion welling in her throat. She uttered his name again as the footsteps drew closer, but when he finally heard voices, he snatched his hands from her grip._

_She watched his palms press to his sides, immediately missing the roughness of his knuckles, the callouses on his fingertips, and the warmth._

_“Jon-” Lady Stark called, but stopped when she realized she must have interrupted._

_“Has there been more news?” Her Lord Hand inquired._

_Jon was terrible at lying when his feelings were stronger than his logic, so Dany inhaled a small breath and lifted her head to see Ser Davos, Lady Sansa and Arya, as well as her Hand and Spymaster._

_The queen smiled widely. “King Jon was just explaining how busy he has been, and I was expressing my greatest gratitude at his remarkable leadership amongst my people while I was,” Dany paused, “Incapacitated.”_

_“If you’ll excuse me.” She prayed to anything that her voice did not crack as she lifted her skirts and marched towards the direction in which she came from, nodding at her advisors, then departed brusquely, and retched into the nearest chamber pot._

“My personal life is my business,” Dany dismissed, glaring at her Lord Hand’s snort in response.

“What personal life?” he scoffed. “Your business is my business,” he waved her off. “Your personal life is my personal life, and we have been fucking Jon Snow, haven’t we?”

Dany winced.

“We are in love with Jon Snow, aren’t we?” It was rhetorical but her chest did not hurt any less.

“Has our heart been broken by Jon Snow as well?”

When Dany looked up, she did not expect to see a stone-straight face from her Hand. She expected some mirth to dance in his eyes, but he was entirely stern. So much so that she had to let herself giggle at the foolishness she promised herself many moons ago she would not allow.

“This is not amusing, your grace.”

Her laughter did not cease to such a point where she must have been going mad for her laughs turned into gasps which turned into light sobs and tears welling her eyes.

She knew she loved Jon Snow, but hearing someone that was not her own subconscious on the ride from the twins to a northern inn was absolutely horrifying. Though, it was still not enough to make her weep, which in return, only made here eyes wetter.

“They say heartbreak gets easier.”

“Who said?”

“I cannot actually recall if I truly read that or heard it, but since your positivity is out of commission and our dearest Missandei is off coaxing the northern troops, we are stuck with me,” Tyrion waved his hand around.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon avoided her, but at least their men have begun drilling together.

 

 

***

 

 

When she fully regained her strength, she sought Ser Jorah, instead, for training.

 

 

***

 

 

Another week passed by, and Gendry joined her and her sword and shield, claiming that Jon has gone mad.

Dany winced but understood. Jon had always been above average with swordplay. Now he was indomitable and fought with a darkly passionate vigor.

Gendry was pleasant. Arya sometimes made commentary from the ground when the flurries were not too severe for the young wolf’s immobile, immaculate, and teasing posture.

The girl never failed to mention that he can make a good blade, but he was shite at wielding one.

Dany had to agree and sometimes smirked at the pride in the She-Wolf’s tone.

The queen stopped seating herself at the high table when she supped, preferring to eat beside Missandei, Gilly and little Sam, Lord Tarly, and the Baratheon bull himself.

It was also easier if she needed to slip out when she felt too ill to continue.

 

 

***

 

 

Sometimes she would catch him from the high walkways of Winterfell, watching her train against the harsh wind.

Both Ser Jorah and Grey Worm, who have taken an odd pleasure in watching her carry a spear, spoke that it was better to train in the awful weather for it would surly make sense if that is what they were truly fighting against: a Storm King.

 

 

***

_Many Days Pass_

 

When Jon spoke with Sam next, they were watching Dany frolic in fresh snow with the children that were being sent from northern towns, children without homes, without parents, to the castle per his sister’s insistence.

As always, the snow was as white as the braid that hung low on her back, swishing with every step, tendrils falling into her face as the pink of her lips stretched into a wide grin at the laughs of the babes.

She parried every bit of snow being thrown at her, skid across the ground for cover, and when her voice rang, servants stopped to stare.

Winterfell had been bleak, but she found a way to bring life into it despite the fear running rampant.

Ghost was with them too, licking the fluffy white off some stone, running to the queen every time she called for him to be her and the little girls’ shield from a fort his sisters had built near some carriages.

He could hear Gendry complaining and saw Sansa finally having some semblance of fun, but he heard nothing louder than the chime of his queen’s laughter and squeals of delight from a Dothraki girl and a set of northern twin boys.

Ghost had pretty much taken a snowball to the snout for her as Jon glared at the image before him.

Sam nudged him as Jon noticed his bannermen laughing.

_She was stealing their hearts._

“And you are mad she has stolen your wolf, too?”

Jon must have mumbled his thought aloud for Sam to respond with such amusement. It was getting around that Ghost had more loyalty to the Dragon Queen than that of his owner, and Jon was inclined to agree. He rarely saw the creature and when he did, he was with Dany and either had to pull him or bribe him away.

Scowling, Jon turned to his friend who held out another book.

Jon already knew what it was about, so he snatched it and left.

 

 

***

 

 

Libraries. It seemed to be their thing.

It was nighttime when Dany sought refuge in the dimly lit abyss of knowledge governed by Sam and what was quickly becoming chicken scratch— _his notes_.

But that night Dany hadn’t been welcomed by _that_ former brother of the Night’s Watch.

Leaving Grey Worm at the door, she peered in, greeted by a crackling fire. The slow hum of it was the melody to her soul, raising gooseflesh on her skin.

With a quick hitch of her breath as she took delicate steps towards the hearth, she realized that it was the best she had felt in weeks. 

Dany thought to leave him alone and mind her own when she spotted him. Continue on as though he hadn’t broken her heart. But it was her heart that was the impediment; she loved him. _Jon Snow._ Her own flesh and blood.

Love was not a weakness. It was strength, so why did she allow it to consume her like a concept less than that?

Swallowing down her trepidation, Daenerys took deliberate steps towards waking the King in the North, with the intention of sending him off to his solar, until she was distracted by the heavy text in his hands. A book on the Stark lineage, opened to the section on his mother.

It detailed what the woman’s most prominent features were, her character, and noted her expertise: horseback riding.

Dany smiled at a small sketching in the corner that she was sure did the woman absolutely no justice and her heart clenched.

Hardly anyone besides his bannermen, Arya, and Gendry saw Jon anymore. Most of his days were spent strategizing and training men. But she and everyone close to him knew he was not sleeping. His footsteps were said to plague the family solar and servants often spoke in hushed whispers of his nights spent privately exercising his combat skills in the main hall.

The book had begun to fall when Jon angled his body into a different position. Dany fought to catch it in efforts not to wake him any longer and just the opposite occurred. Her arms captured the large black book, but it quickly fell when a strong hand came upon her wrists, nearly taking her to the ground.

Snapping her head up, she found Jon’s orbs blazing hotter than the hearth. She whimpered under his gaze and the strength of his fingers.

While his grip loosened, he didn’t let go.

Dany’s lips parted, willing herself to speak but no words left her mouth, only an inaudible gasp, for his irises displayed emotion like liquid fire. They were red with desolation and, beneath it, laid a patch of darkness. They searched her for something, _anything,_ and she could only flutter hers in response.

She had nothing that could make the feelings he felt better. She had no answers to his questions and no solutions to quell his confusion.

Releasing one hand from his grip, she brought her palm to his face, allowing his beard to scratch her fingertips, letting his head rest as her thumb stroked his cheek. She did the same with her other before lowering herself to place a kiss to the wrinkles that made home across his forehead.

It was the only way she could communicate that if he no longer wished to be alone, he did not have to be.

As she pulled away, his irises gazed up to her like the goddess he knew her to be. Only this time with the awe in his eyes came sheer devastation.

It had never dawned on her before then that Jon Snow had not only found out that he and the woman he cared for beyond measure were related, _but he also discovered who his mother was_. The question that had plagued him for over two decades, _and that she was dead_. He would never meet her, or know her, and he had had no father to tell him stories.

Even without an ounce of bastard blood running through his bones, he still felt like one.

His lips crashed against hers, the weight of his feelings collapsing with her own thoughts. His hands laid heavy on her back, kneading her body into his. And his tongue was hot, winding its way into her mouth, begging for an entrance she would always give him.

A high-pitched noise came from the back of Dany’s throat as his palms slid down her back, and under her skirts, cupped her arse and raised her onto his lap where she felt his stiffening length.

Her body reacted, as it always did, with sheer compliance.

Dany moaned against his mouth, sliding her tongue against his, rolling her hips against his, aching to feel him inside her, to have him fill her with his seed again.

She grasped the back of his head, undoing the tie that bound his beautiful dark curls, and tangled her fingers within them, pulling him impossibly closer.

He groaned against her in return, his hands slipping past her breeches to be welcomed by a wetness that Dany could only deem as embarrassing.

Jon grunted in response while she moaned, grinding along the fingers that penetrated her warm folds.

She gasped, falling against his throat at the sensation but when she raised her head once more, she found his eyes to be scrunched shut and his cheeks damp.

“Jon,” she swallowed down sorrow as he tugged her body forward, his other arm coming up around her for an embrace. “Stop.”

He froze.

“No,” she sighed, clenching her teeth together to stop her voice from shaking.

His eyes opened to see her despondency.

“Did I— I apolo-”

_He always apologizes for things he shouldn’t apologize for and ignores me when he should be apologizing._

Dany laughed but she suspected that it sounded more like a sob.

“Don’t,” she shook her head. “I just- I do not wish for you to look at me with regret.”

His eyes were downcast.

“I love you, Jon Snow,” she admitted with a forlorn sadness. “You may not even remember this, you should get some sleep.”

She caressed his cheek, “And if you do, remember this, that is- if you still wish to continue this on the morrow, you can find me at dawn, or dusk, _anytime_ during the day, and I will be yours.”

His head nodded once.

Dany allowed a harsh breath of emptiness to leave her as his fingers pulled away from her mound.

She dreaded leaving, so much so that she permitted her eyes to water as Jon placed one more kiss, a chaste one, along the edge of her lips.

It felt like a goodbye.

“Go on,” his voice was thickly accented and sleepy.

Dragging herself away from him, she turned before he could see tears fall. She left the same way she came in, only this time as she passed the fire, it could no longer warm the coldness she felt.

 

 

***

 

 

When Dany began missing the morning council meetings, Jon blamed himself.

Missandei filled in her stead beside Lord Tyrion who looked just as confused.

Dany hardly stayed for supper, always leaving after a few moments and bites of bread in quiet haste.

Sansa began to worry but Missandei said all was well.

Jon did not believe her.

After the fourth council meeting with the Naathi advisor, Arya inquired. “And why is it that the queen is not here?”

Missandei responded calmly, stating that the queen was ill again.

Tyrion began to look worried, which was curious, to Jon. The only advisor that has seen her seemed to be Missandei, and perhaps Lord Varys, who did not seem the slightest bit shocked nor amused, his concern masked with a purse of his lips.

By the end of the week, Sansa had been on edge due to their supply of food and obvious lack of daylight.

Jon was annoyed, so he finally asked to speak with her, _privately_. Missandei politely declined, insisting that Her Grace needed some _time_.

Jon gripped the table, in sadness or anger, he was not sure, but there was a war at their gates and duty was not something to play at.

Two more meetings pass before Sansa cracked.

“Her Grace has responsibilities, and while we know that you are very capable, you are neither the queen of the Unsullied and Dothraki nor the queen of the Free Cities with claim to the Iron Throne.”

Jon’s head lifted to Sansa, too stunned to speak. His sister had said her words in the politest manner, but there was an obvious bite to her words.

He gritted his teeth and wondered if everyone had gone wild along with himself whilst he had not been paying attention.

Quickly turning to the queen’s most trusted advisor, whose full lips spread into a thin line, perhaps biting them from retorting, he sighed, attempting to offer an apology, but her eyes went to Grey Worm. There was panic and if Jon had not been watching her so intently, he would have missed it.

She was not familiar with many Westerosi customs but speaking out against highborns was something she grasped very quickly.

“Very well,” Missandei stood, taking her leave to retrieve the queen.

Jon twisted his head towards Sansa, who had muttered that the situation was ridiculous. While he agreed, he still carried some of the blame on his shoulders, commanding her to mind her tone and that she was the one who was being “ridiculous.”

 

Missandei walked in some time later with a positively green and pale queen.

Jon’s stomach tightened. He had been paying attention to the guest orders of lighter meals. But he also noticed Ser Jorah’s visits to the queen’s solar every evening.

Suspicion and irritation left him, and Jon’s body filled with shame when it dawned on him that Dany was most truly ill.

When Jon stood, his sister had the decency to curtsy with embarrassment.

“My deepest apologies,” Daenerys spoke. “I thought that Missandei would be able to represent me, but Lady Stark is quite correct, I should be making more of an effort.”

Her voice was hoarse, though she was able to speak with authority, the way her throat closed around her words, _Jon_ could tell she was struggling. Grey Worm and Kovarro looked furious standing on either side of the queen.

Jon swallowed before beginning the meeting, but he did little of the talking, his eyes never leaving Dany’s hands, which looked shaky.

When she was offered soft cheese and bread, her face twisted before holding up her hand, Missandei setting the tray on Jon’s side of the table where Sam happily took a grape.

“How long are the days lasting now, Lady Stark?” the queen enquired.

“A total of six hours of sunlight, Your Grace.”

“Across the realm?”

“A little bit longer in Essos,” Lord Varys supplied. “King’s Landing is no longer getting much day time and the heavy snow is beginning to fall in the Reach.”

“Dorne?”

“Very cold, averaging about nine hours,” Ser Jaime Lannister provided, eyeing her apprehensively, taking a sip of wine.

“What are our next steps?” Daenerys picked up a piece of parchment, reading the accounts.

If snow was hitting the Reach, food supply would run very short and fast in the south for they could not endure winters. The dark cold would make the sea restless making, imports a risk.

When Dany was told that the Dothraki Sea’s grass was wilting, that life was dulling, she froze.

Her eyes lifted to Jon’s, who found horror within them before they searched for Ser Jorah. _“When the seas go dry,”_ the old bear mumbled, quietly.

Jon hadn’t the faintest clue what it meant or how Dany could have possibly become paler. No one understood except Ser Jorah and her Dothraki guard.

“Evacuation.” It was the only thing Jon could say. It was the answer to her question because the last raven from Eastwatch by the Sea was the most unsettling. They would begin their army formations following the northern departures.

 

 

***

 

 

The Great Hall was a bustle of energy all day and eerie at night.

Tyrion liked to stay in the solar less and Sansa hated to be alone. Missandei always found something honest to do with Gilly while Podrick got teased mercilessly by Ser Bronn and Lord Tyrion at the head table.

The queen was finally out and about, looking less sick, but still swaying slightly on her feet.

It had taken a few days, which was not unbeknownst to Jon.

The pallor of her face was not hidden, but she made up an excuse that fire made flesh apparently did not fare well in the snow. Which was a lie. She was glorious in the cold tundra _when conscious._

Supper was over but still she sat beside Gendry who looked content despite their proximity, which was odd for he did not like to be around women, yet when she leaned towards him and he did not blink.

Jon had heard Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos speaking about armor, and Jon had been at the smithy and found a few breast plates that looked to be made for a smaller frame. They trained together as well. A lot of time had been spent between them.

Jon had trouble swallowing his sadness at the hoot of laughter Gendry seemed to have evoked from her.

 

 

***

 

 

Jon supped one more night in the Great Hall before deciding to ride out with his men and Ghost to start the migration. No one would be north of Winter’s Town on his orders.

He needed time away.

Both Sansa and Lord Tyrion were not happy, but Arya had sided with him.

He wondered if it was because she was scared for him to find out that she rarely slept in her chambers anymore and that she often smelled of coal from the forge.

Watching the interactions of northerners and high commanders from both the Unsullied and Dothraki felt good. The Lannister men, some of them ate in the Great Hall, but most of them, wanting to avoid antagonism, dinned in their rooms.

Jon felt sure that he could leave, their people seemed to have struck a silent accord for peace.

“Lay off my bread, will you?” Gendry lightly slapped Dany’s hand away from his plate, her stew left untouched while Missandei chortled. Still, Gendry gave her his ration and she offered him her stew, which he looked nervous about taking from her.

Jon’s eyes burned watching them, but he took a deep breath.

Squinting, he called for a servant to bring his provisions of hot rolls and the spares from the high table down to Dany, insisting not to make a scene.

Jon took his leave at sunrise.

 

 

***

 

 

The next time Dany and Jon were in confined quarters was the night he returned.

He and one other guard had ridden back early, anxiety making Jon nervous in the snow. Sleep evaded him as it usually did, and thoughts of her filled his mind. _But he had a duty._

His men and many smallfolk had remarked that they had never seen a king so close. One of the small boys asked him if the dragons were really scary and one of the older men asked if the Dragon Queen was truly as beautiful as everyone said.

Jon answered the small boy, “Not when they like you.” While Don told the older man, “Prettier.”

Of course, Jon glared.

“Have you lain with her?” Another old man, who probably lived through many wars by sleeping amongst pigs and drinking old ale in abandoned cellars, questioned.

“You want to ask her that?” The smoothness of Jon’s voice frightened even him. The even-temperedness was certainly not what he felt. He wished to bash the old man’s head in for the vile thoughts that probably filled his mind and now going through that of Jon’s soldiers. But the man just smiled like he knew something, _everything_.

Jon spent a few more days ushering people into groups that would head to Winter’s Town, despite the lack of space, reasoning with lords that were intensely against allowing wildlings to use their lands for forts.

After the third discourse, Jon left in the evening with a nagging feeling in his gut that would not subside, promising the lords they would speak again.

Leaving Don in charge and Ghost near Winter’s Town, he set out, riding hard and fast, arriving in perfect time to hear a shriek. Every fiber of his being knew it was her.

Jon looked up towards the sky after being shaded from the moonlight by a great darkness. Rhaegal was wrapped around a tower seething with a quiet fire, almost waiting for a command, from either him or his mother? Jon did not know. However, Drogon looked ready to rain fire upon his home before turning to Jon who wondered why he hadn’t as he began ripping through the castle; _the entrance to undercrofts beneath the Great Hall._

The dragons might trust him yet…

 

The scene he was presented with was the Kingslayer and Lady Tarth surrounded, four bodies already on the ground, and a faint trail of a night gown turning a corner.

“The queen!” Ser Jaime shouted as he parried a blow.

There were seven men that stormed the room after the Kingslayer roared, outside of the five that surrounded the man and lady knight.

 _Lannister uniforms_ but the Lion fought still.

Jon kept his heels steady despite seeing red. He was easy on his feet, unsheathing his sword as the first man advanced on him. The soldier was fast. Jon pivoted and slit his throat at the opening under the helm.

Two more started in his direction but he passed back, turned so that his rear was to the four others, much to his dismay, ducked as the two spun around with an empty fade and cut them down.

In Jon’s mind, it had made perfect sense for the last four to storm him with his defense down, so either they were slow or just stupid, but Jon’s lips curled with fury nonetheless.

Perhaps the rest all took careful steps towards him after that, but in Jon’s head they were still as he raged to get through to the queen. At least two men were on him by the time he took his stance. Two _that he could see_. However, when he looked up, the four were dead, and Ser Jaime plunged his sword into one that Lady Brienne could not evade.

With his guard momentarily down, a knife swiped towards him, pulling Jon from his gaze and back into the fight. More men kept coming and Jon couldn’t fathom how no one could hear, and that’s when his stomach sank.

_His family could be dead, the queen’s men could be dead, the children…_

“I told her to run that way- the way we came in, no one was there,” Ser Jaime breathed out rapidly as Jon ran past the sea of bodies killed by his sword.

It was hall after hall, pillar after pillar, the wooden crates and sacks all looked the same until he happened upon the figure he was searching for. He froze, almost vomiting, when he saw Dany lying under some big man.

Halting mid-battle had never offered Jon a pleasant result. Hesitation gave room for a more desirable outcome, still awful, but less than his feet being rooted to the ground in the wake of Dany’s white shift dripping in crimson.

Her body was immobile and her face, what could be seen of it was pale. Silence deafened him as his feet carried him towards her form

 _“Help me,”_ Jon was not sure if he was hallucinating behind the fogginess of his vision and thickness of his blood-soaked curls in his ear. _“Help.”_ His feet picked up his quiet pace.

“Please get him off,” heaviness was crushing her which pulled Jon out of his stunned horror, forcing him to run.

With his chest tightening and air struggling to move through his lungs, Jon shoved the large man off the Queen.

He was dead, and she was shaking.

Not knowing what to do, Jon only thought to skim her body for any open wounds before she uttered that the man hadn’t gotten the chance to harm her. Her stained dress had been pushed up, so he tugged it down as she shifted closer to him.

Jon was not sure before if she needed space to not be touched, but when she folded in his arms, he found himself clutching her, his own trembling body wrapping around hers as her wet face nestled into his chest.

He wondered if she was upset that she was attacked or that the reason for his comfort had stemmed from another attack. Neither commented as her shaky hand reached up to his face.

“You should trim this again,” she remarked, her eyes glistening while he managed to produce a smile. He expected her to comment on the blood that was all over his face for he could taste the copper on his tongue and feel the stinging in his eyes. _Or perhaps that was from the tears he refused to let fall._

“Did he…” Jon couldn’t finish the sentence.

Dany shook her head, and repeated that he hadn’t the chance to hurt her, her violet irises moving towards a knife.

She pulled him into a deeper embrace, one they seemed to silently scream for. A touch, a caress, anything to dull the pains that plagued them this night.

Jon’s head fell to her neck, breathing in the strong oils she bathed in and the baked bread she ate night and day, his hand gripped her waist as her nails dug into his leathers, clutching him as if he was the only thing stopping her from sinking. And perhaps he was, he thought, as she sniffed, letting out an unruly noise that had probably been building up in the back of her throat.

His stomach twisted and convulsed at the prospect of letting her go.

“Can you stand?” the soft words were bitter in his mouth.

Dany nodded, accepting his help, wobbling on her bare feet as he forced them to rise.

His eyes skimmed her form, noticing the rips in her gown and lack of footwear. He tucked the strands of hair that had fallen out of the blue net she started wearing once more behind her ears, clearing her face of any wetness and blood.

There was a bruise forming on her cheek that caused such wrath to course through him, he could hardly see right. He turned from her, firmly placing her palm within his after removing his bloodied cloak and placing it over her shoulders, and then nearly carrying her as they traveled back to the entrance of the halls.

Jon wanted to shout as their advisors and her commanders came into view, but he could barely speak.

The men were in Lannister attire, someone said. “But they aren’t Lannister men,” Sansa noted gently, appalled and shaking from a chill. She must have rushed from her chambers.

Ser Podrick who stood pale next to the smaller lion, walked to Sansa and easily placed his cape over his sister’s shoulders with a heavy frown.

Everyone stood silent for a few moments as Arya, who was coated in blood as well, surveyed the bodies. Two were alive and would be taken to the cells. Jon did not recall when she had entered the fight.

“How?” Arya was the only one brave enough to ask as she pushed her wild raven curls from her face to eye the queen.

Jon could hear Dany swallow before composing her voice, “I thought I heard… I heard some voices.”

“Kovarro and Black Rat are dead,” Tyrion stated, looking towards the youngest Stark sister.

“And the northern troops guarding the guest solar are nowhere to be found because they are probably them,” Arya motioned towards the bodies. “I know that one,” she pointed towards one of the guards.

“This is the second time,” Sansa strained, looking at Jon.

“And the final time,” was all Jon said before telling them that he would walk the queen to the family solar, commanding Grey Worm to follow with a maidservant.

He took her back to the room they inhabited when they had first arrived at the castle. They winded through the hallways, and stretched past corridors, allowing the queen to clear her head, as she liked to do.

“I won’t allow Ghost to leave again,” Jon said in earnest, looking down and away.

“Perhaps _you_ should not leave again.”

He stayed quiet until they arrived at his childhood room that he no longer resided in. He couldn’t, not after the news of his parentage, after his restless nights thinking about all they vowed to each other and the promises he undoubtedly broke in his silence and absence.

Closing the door behind him and sliding down the wooden entrance as she made her way further into the space, he was sure he looked like a little boy, but his legs would not allow him a better stance.

She could have been raped and murdered if he had not come home. Or his entire home and his family, people, and friends could have been burned to crisps.

Closing his eyes, Jon knew he did not trust his people but now he trusted himself. He pondered telling her another ugly reality, opening his eyes to see her purple ones.

The Wall would come down. It was only a matter of time. He informed her of such.

“When we were together, you struggled to look me in the eyes with horrible truths and now that we are apart you whisper all the horrors of your mind,” Dany commented, her voice soft and full of melancholy.

“How much more can I possibly hurt you?”

Her violet eyes shone bright with a wise sorrow in the winter wrought darkness.

 

 

***

 

 

He finally called Tormund and the wildlings back.

He called all the men at the Wall back.

After harsh interrogation, he hung the men that had conspired against the crown and burned the bodies.

 

_Fool him once, shame on him._

**_Fool him twice, shame on thee._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My typos are mine. I make mistakes. Iane does her best to clean me up and prepare me for publishing lmfaoooo ahhhhhh she loved this chapter, which made me love it too so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Tell me your favorite part. I am partial to gendrya and Ghost licking bricks BUT I wanna know your guys' fav! Leave me comments. It's like giving me money but it's not money, it's love, which is also important and very much appreciated.
> 
> Next chapter is looking like a crack fic right now, so lets hope what I give you as a preview stays in. Pray for me because we are soon entering worse drama and hella jonerys and im excited to be writing smut again soooooo LOVE ME. Thnx! Next up....
> 
>  
> 
> His eyes were dark and heavy as the night sky. They used to be full of promise, and sometimes still were. This night, however, they were full of his usual misery that she supposed came from what he thought to be his failure.
> 
> She had told him that she heard his voice. But Dany should have known that it was not him. He had only visited her in her dreams, holding a babe in front of a red door with a bright smile and the shinning sun.
> 
> She remembered him slipping her hands into his, shortly after, in comfort. It was when he ceased to look at her though. He rubbed his thumbs along her knuckles, and she was frustrated because he was no longer shaking with fierce emotion. He was steady and calm while caressing her palms.
> 
> He had just killed so many and yet he was tranquil with her touch.


End file.
